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you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

off

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

sullenly

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

comfort

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

catlap

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

habit

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

better

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

nothing,--could

How many times the word 'nothing,--could' appears in the text?

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

ravines

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

asked:--

How many times the word 'asked:--' appears in the text?

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

burgess

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

could

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

side

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

gin

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

bring

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

instances

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

teach

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

todger

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

you know? Not as much as how to beeyave yourself--layin your dirty fist across the mouth of a respectable woman! BILL. Don't provoke me to lay it acrost yours: d'ye hear? SHIRLEY [with blighting contempt] Yes: you like an old man to hit, don't you, when you've finished with the women. I ain't seen you hit a young one yet. BILL [stung] You lie, you old soupkitchener, you. There was a young man here. Did I offer to hit him or did I not? SHIRLEY. Was he starvin or was he not? Was he a man or only a crosseyed thief an a loafer? Would you hit my son-in-law's brother? BILL. Who's he? SHIRLEY. Todger Fairmile o Balls Pond. Him that won 20 pounds off the Japanese wrastler at the music hall by standin out 17 minutes 4 seconds agen him. BILL [sullenly] I'm no music hall wrastler. Can he box? SHIRLEY. Yes: an you can't. BILL. Wot! I can't, can't I? Wot's that you say [threatening him]? SHIRLEY [not budging an inch] Will you box Todger Fairmile if I put him on to you? Say the word. BILL. [subsiding with a slouch] I'll stand up to any man alive, if he was ten Todger Fairmiles. But I don't set up to be a perfessional. SHIRLEY [looking down on him with unfathomable disdain] YOU box! Slap an old woman with the back o your hand! You hadn't even the sense to hit her where a magistrate couldn't see the mark of it, you silly young lump of conceit and ignorance. Hit a girl in the jaw and ony make her cry! If Todger Fairmile'd done it, she wouldn't a got up inside o ten minutes, no more than you would if he got on to you. Yah! I'd set about you myself if I had a week's feedin in me instead o two months starvation. [He returns to the table to finish his meal]. BILL [following him and stooping over him to drive the taunt in] You lie! you have the bread and treacle in you that you come here to beg. SHIRLEY [bursting into tears] Oh God! it's true: I'm only an old pauper on the scrap heap. [Furiously] But you'll come to it yourself; and then you'll know. You'll come to it sooner than a teetotaller like me, fillin yourself with gin at this hour o the mornin! BILL. I'm no gin drinker, you old liar; but when I want to give my girl a bloomin good idin I like to av a bit o devil in me: see? An here I am, talkin to a rotten old blighter like you sted o givin her wot for. [Working himself into a rage] I'm goin in there to fetch her out. [He makes vengefully for the shelter door]. SHIRLEY. You're goin to the station on a stretcher, more likely; and they'll take the gin and the devil out of you there when they get you inside. You mind what you're about: the major here is the Earl o Stevenage's granddaughter. BILL [checked] Garn! SHIRLEY. You'll see. BILL [his resolution oozing] Well, I ain't done nothin to er. SHIRLEY. Spose she said you did! who'd believe you? BILL [very uneasy, skulking back to the corner of the penthouse] Gawd! There's no jastice in this country. To think wot them people can do! I'm as good as er. SHIRLEY. Tell her so. It's just what a fool like you would do. Barbara, brisk and businesslike, comes from the shelter with a note book, and addresses herself to Shirley. Bill, cowed, sits down in the corner on a form, and turns his back on them. BARBARA. Good morning. SHIRLEY [standing up and taking off his hat] Good morning, miss. BARBARA. Sit down: make yourself at home. [He hesitates; but she puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and makes him obey]. Now then! since you've made friends with us, we want to know all about you. Names and addresses and trades. SHIRLEY. Peter Shirley. Fitter. Chucked out two months ago because I was too old. BARBARA [not at all surprised] You'd pass still. Why didn't you dye your hair? SHIRLEY. I did. Me age come out at a coroner's inquest on me daughter. BARBARA. Steady? SHIRLEY. Teetotaller. Never out of a job before. Good worker. And sent to the knockers like an old horse! BARBARA. No matter: if you did your part God will do his. SHIRLEY [suddenly stubborn] My religion's no concern of anybody but myself. BARBARA [guessing] I know. Secularist? SHIRLEY [hotly] Did I offer to deny it? BARBARA. Why should you? My own father's a Secularist, I think. Our Father--yours and mine--fulfils himself in many ways; and I daresay he knew what he was about when he made a Secularist of you. So buck up, Peter! we can always find a job for a steady man like you. [Shirley, disarmed, touches his hat. She turns from him to Bill]. What's your name? BILL [insolently] Wot's that to you? BARBARA [calmly making a note] Afraid to give his name. Any trade? BILL. Who's afraid to give his name? [Doggedly, with a sense of heroically defying the House of Lords in the person of Lord Stevenage] If you want to bring a charge agen me, bring it. [She waits, unruffled]. My name's Bill Walker. BARBARA [as if the name were familiar: trying to remember how] Bill Walker? [Recollecting] Oh, I know: you're the man that Jenny Hill was praying for inside just now. [She enters his name in her note book]. BILL. Who's Jenny Hill? And what call has she to pray for me? BARBARA. I don't know. Perhaps it was you that cut her lip. BILL [defiantly] Yes, it was me that cut her lip. I ain't afraid o you. BARBARA. How could you be, since you're not afraid of God? You're a brave man, Mr. Walker. It takes some pluck to do our work here; but none of us dare lift our hand against a girl like that, for fear of her father in heaven. BILL [sullenly] I want none o your cantin jaw. I suppose you think I come here to beg from you, like this damaged lot here. Not me. I don't want your bread and scrape and catlap. I don't believe in your Gawd, no more than you do yourself. BARBARA [sunnily apologetic and ladylike, as on a new footing with him] Oh, I beg your pardon for putting your name down, Mr. Walker. I didn't understand. I'll strike it out. BILL [taking this as a slight, and deeply wounded by it] Eah! you let my name alone. Ain't it good enough to be in your book? BARBARA [considering] Well, you see, there's no use putting down your name unless I can do something for you, is there? What's your trade? BILL [still smarting] That's no concern o yours. BARBARA. Just so. [very businesslike] I'll put you down as [writing] the man who--struck--poor little Jenny Hill--in the mouth. BILL [rising threateningly] See here. I've ad enough o this. BARBARA [quite sunny and fearless] What did you come to us for? BILL. I come for my girl, see? I come to take her out o this and to break er jaws for her. BARBARA [complacently] You see I was right about your trade. [Bill, on the point of retorting furiously, finds himself, to his great shame and terror, in danger of crying instead. He sits down again suddenly]. What's her name? BILL [dogged] Er name's Mog Abbijam: thats wot her name is. BARBARA. Oh, she's gone to Canning Town, to our barracks there. BILL [fortified by his resentment of Mog's perfidy] is she? [Vindictively] Then I'm goin to Kennintahn arter her. [He crosses to the gate; hesitates; finally comes back at Barbara]. Are you lyin to me to get shut o me? BARBARA. I don't want to get shut of you. I want to keep you here and save your soul. You'd better stay: you're going to have a bad time today, Bill. BILL. Who's goin to give it to me? You, props. BARBARA. Someone you don't believe in. But you'll be glad afterwards. BILL [slinking off] I'll go to Kennintahn to be out o the reach o your tongue. [Suddenly turning on her with intense malice] And if I don't find Mog there, I'll come back and do two years for you, selp me Gawd if I don't! BARBARA [a shade kindlier, if possible] It's no use, Bill. She's got another bloke. BILL. Wot! BARBARA. One of her own converts. He fell in love with her when he saw her with her soul saved, and her face clean, and her hair washed. BILL [surprised] Wottud she wash it for, the carroty slut? It's red. BARBARA. It's quite lovely now, because she wears a new look in her eyes with it. It's a pity you're too late. The new bloke has put your nose out of joint, Bill. BILL. I'll put his nose out o joint for him. Not that I care a curse for her, mind that. But I'll teach her to drop me as if I was dirt. And I'll teach him to meddle with my Judy. Wots iz bleedin name? BARBARA. Sergeant Todger Fairmile. SHIRLEY [rising with grim joy] I'll go with him, miss. I want to see them two meet. I'll take him to the infirmary when it's over. BILL [to Shirley, with undissembled misgiving] Is that im you was speakin on? SHIRLEY. That's him. BILL. Im that wrastled in the music all? SHIRLEY. The competitions at the National Sportin Club was worth nigh a hundred a year to him. He's gev em up now for religion; so he's a bit fresh for want of the exercise he was accustomed to. He'll be glad to see you. Come along. BILL. Wots is weight? SHIRLEY. Thirteen four. [Bill's last hope expires]. BARBARA. Go and talk to him, Bill. He'll convert you. SHIRLEY. He'll convert your head into a mashed potato. BILL [sullenly] I ain't afraid of him. I ain't afraid of ennybody. But he can lick me. She's done me. [He sits down moodily on the edge of the horse trough]. SHIRLEY. You ain't goin. I thought not. [He resumes his seat]. BARBARA [calling] Jenny! JENNY [appearing at the shelter door with a plaster on the corner of her mouth] Yes, Major. BARBARA. Send Rummy Mitchens out to clear away here. JENNY. I think she's afraid. BARBARA [her resemblance to her mother flashing out for a moment] Nonsense! she must do as she's told. JENNY [calling into the shelter] Rummy: the Major says you must come. Jenny comes to Barbara, purposely keeping on the side next Bill, lest he should suppose that she shrank from him or bore malice. BARBARA. Poor little Jenny! Are you tired? [Looking at the wounded cheek] Does it hurt? JENNY. No: it's all right now. It was nothing. BARBARA [critically] It was as hard as he could hit, I expect. Poor Bill! You don't feel angry with him, do you? JENNY. Oh no, no, no: indeed I don't, Major, bless his poor heart! [Barbara kisses her; and she runs away merrily into the shelter. Bill writhes with an agonizing return of his new and alarming symptoms, but says nothing. Rummy Mitchens comes from the shelter]. BARBARA [going to meet Rummy] Now Rummy, bustle. Take in those mugs and plates to be washed; and throw the crumbs about for the birds. Rummy takes the three plates and mugs; but Shirley takes back his mug from her, as there it still come milk left in it. RUMMY. There ain't any crumbs. This ain't a time to waste good bread on birds. PRICE [appearing at the shelter door] Gentleman come to see the shelter, Major. Says he's your father. BARBARA. All right. Coming. [Snobby goes back into the shelter, followed by Barbara]. RUMMY [stealing across to Bill and addressing him in a subdued voice, but with intense conviction] I'd av the lor of you, you flat eared pignosed potwalloper, if she'd let me. You're no gentleman, to hit a lady in the face. [Bill, with greater things moving in him, takes no notice]. SHIRLEY [following her] Here! in with you and don't get yourself into more trouble by talking. RUMMY [with hauteur] I ain't ad the pleasure o being hintroduced to you, as I can remember. [She goes into the shelter with the plates]. BILL [savagely] Don't you talk to me, d'ye hear. You lea me alone, or I'll do you a mischief. I'm not dirt under your feet, anyway. SHIRLEY [calmly] Don't you be afeerd. You ain't such prime company that you need expect to be sought after. [He is about to go into the shelter when Barbara comes out, with Undershaft on her right]. BARBARA. Oh there you are, Mr Shirley! [Between them] This is my father: I told you he was a Secularist, didn't I? Perhaps you'll be able to comfort one another. UNDERSHAFT [startled] A Secularist! Not the least in the world: on the contrary, a confirmed mystic. BARBARA. Sorry, I'm sure. By the way, papa, what is your religion--in case I have to introduce you again? UNDERSHAFT. My religion? Well, my dear, I am a Millionaire. That is my religion. BARBARA. Then I'm afraid you and Mr Shirley wont be able to comfort one another after all. You're not a Millionaire, are you, Peter? SHIRLEY. No; and proud of it. UNDERSHAFT [gravely] Poverty, my friend, is not a thing to be proud of. SHIRLEY [angrily] Who made your millions for you? Me and my like. What's kep us poor? Keepin you rich. I wouldn't have your conscience, not for all your income. UNDERSHAFT. I wouldn't have your income, not for all your conscience, Mr Shirley. [He goes to the penthouse and sits down on a form]. BARBARA [stopping Shirley adroitly as he is about to retort] You wouldn't think he was my father, would you, Peter? Will you go into the shelter and lend the lasses a hand for a while: we're worked off our feet. SHIRLEY [bitterly] Yes: I'm in their debt for a meal, ain't I? BARBARA. Oh, not because you're in their debt; but for love of them, Peter, for love of them. [He cannot understand, and is rather scandalized]. There! Don't stare at me. In with you; and give that conscience of yours a holiday [bustling him into the shelter]. SHIRLEY [as he goes in] Ah! it's a pity you never was trained to use your reason, miss. You'd have been a very taking lecturer on Secularism. Barbara turns to her father. UNDERSHAFT. Never mind me, my dear. Go about your work; and let me watch it for a while. BARBARA. All right. UNDERSHAFT. For instance, what's the matter with that out-patient over there? BARBARA [looking at Bill, whose attitude has never changed, and whose expression of brooding wrath has deepened] Oh, we shall cure him in no time. Just watch. [She goes over to Bill and waits. He glances up at her and casts his eyes down again, uneasy, but grimmer than ever]. It would be nice to just stamp on Mog Habbijam's face, wouldn't it, Bill? BILL [starting up from the trough in consternation] It's a lie: I never said so. [She shakes her head]. Who told you wot was in my mind? BARBARA. Only your new friend. BILL. Wot new friend? BARBARA. The devil, Bill. When he gets round people they get miserable, just like you. HILL [with a heartbreaking attempt at devil-may-care cheerfulness] I ain't miserable. [He sits down again, and stretches his legs in an attempt to seem indifferent]. BARBARA. Well, if you're happy, why don't you look happy, as we do? BILL [his legs curling back in spite of him] I'm appy enough, I tell you. Why don't you lea me alown? Wot av I done to you? I ain't smashed your face, av I? BARBARA [softly: wooing his soul] It's not me that's getting at you, Bill. BILL. Who else is it? BARBARA. Somebody that doesn't intend you to smash women's faces, I suppose. Somebody or something that wants to make a man of you. BILL [blustering] Make a man o ME! Ain't I a man? eh? ain't I a man? Who sez I'm not a man? BARBARA. There's a man in you somewhere, I suppose. But why did he let you hit poor little Jenny Hill? That wasn't very manly of him, was it? BILL [tormented] Av done with it, I tell you. Chock it. I'm sick of your Jenny Ill and er silly little face. BARBARA. Then why do you keep thinking about it? Why does it keep coming up against you in your mind? You're not getting converted, are you? BILL [with conviction] Not ME. Not likely. Not arf. BARBARA. That's right, Bill. Hold out against it. Put out your strength. Don't let's get you cheap. Todger Fairmile said he wrestled for three nights against his Salvation harder than he ever wrestled with the Jap at the music hall. He gave in to the Jap when his arm was going to break. But he didn't give in to his salvation until his heart was going to break. Perhaps you'll escape that. You haven't any heart, have you? BILL. Wot dye mean? Wy ain't I got a art the same as ennybody else? BARBARA. A man with a heart wouldn't have bashed poor little Jenny's face, would he? BILL [almost crying] Ow, will you lea me alown? Av I ever offered to meddle with you, that you come noggin and provowkin me lawk this? [He writhes convulsively from his eyes to his toes]. BARBARA [with a steady soothing hand on his arm and a gentle voice that never lets him go] It's your soul that's hurting you, Bill, and not me. We've been through it all ourselves. Come with us, Bill. [He looks wildly round]. To brave manhood on earth and eternal glory in heaven. [He is on the point of breaking down]. Come. [A drum is heard in the shelter; and Bill, with a gasp, escapes from the spell as Barbara turns quickly. Adolphus enters from the shelter with a big drum]. Oh! there you are, Dolly. Let me introduce a new friend of mine, Mr Bill Walker. This is my bloke, Bill: Mr Cusins. [Cusins salutes with his drumstick]. BILL. Goin to marry im? BARBARA. Yes. BILL [fervently] Gawd elp im! Gawd elp im! BARBARA. Why? Do you think he won't be happy with me? BILL. I've only ad to stand it for a mornin: e'll av to stand it for a lifetime. CUSINS. That is a frightful reflection, Mr Walker. But I can't tear myself away from her. BILL. Well, I can. [To Barbara] Eah! do you know where I'm goin to, and wot I'm goin to do? BARBARA. Yes: you're going to heaven; and you're coming back here before the week's out to tell me so. BILL. You lie. I'm goin to Kennintahn, to spit in Todger Fairmile's eye. I bashed Jenny Ill's face; and now I'll get me own face bashed and come back and show it to er. E'll it me ardern I it er. That'll make us square. [To Adolphus] Is that fair or is it not? You're a genlmn: you oughter know. BARBARA. Two black eyes wont make one white one, Bill. BILL. I didn't ast you. Cawn't you never keep your mahth shut? I ast the genlmn. CUSINS [reflectively] Yes: I think you're right, Mr Walker. Yes: I should do it. It's curious: it's exactly what an ancient Greek would have done. BARBARA. But what good will it do? CUSINS. Well, it will give Mr Fairmile some exercise; and it will satisfy Mr Walker's soul. BILL. Rot! there ain't no sach a thing as a soul. Ah kin you tell wether I've a soul or not? You never seen it. BARBARA. I've seen it hurting you when you went against it. BILL [with compressed aggravation] If you was my girl and took the word out o me mahth lawk thet, I'd give you suthink you'd feel urtin, so I would. [To Adolphus] You take my tip, mate. Stop er jawr; or you'll die afore your time. [With intense expression] Wore aht: thets wot you'll be: wore aht. [He goes away through the gate]. CUSINS [looking after him] I wonder! BARBARA. Dolly! [indignant, in her mother's manner]. CUSINS. Yes, my dear, it's very wearing to be in love with you. If it lasts, I quite think I shall die young. BARBARA. Should you mind? CUSINS. Not at all. [He is suddenly softened, and kisses her over the drum, evidently not for the first time, as people cannot kiss over a big drum without practice. Undershaft coughs]. BARBARA. It's all right, papa, we've not forgotten you. Dolly: explain the place to papa: I haven't time. [She goes busily into the shelter]. Undershaft and Adolpbus now have the yard to themselves. Undershaft, seated on a form, and still keenly attentive, looks hard at Adolphus. Adolphus looks hard at him. UNDERSHAFT. I fancy you guess something of what is in my mind, Mr Cusins. [Cusins flourishes his drumsticks as if in the art of beating a lively rataplan, but makes no sound]. Exactly so. But suppose Barbara finds you out! CUSINS. You know, I do not admit that I am imposing on Barbara. I am quite genuinely interested in the views of the Salvation Army. The fact is, I am a sort of collector of religions; and the curious thing is that I find I can believe them all. By the way, have you any religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. CUSINS. Anything out of the common? UNDERSHAFT. Only that there are two things necessary to Salvation. CUSINS [disappointed, but polite] Ah, the Church Catechism. Charles Lomax also belongs to the Established Church. UNDERSHAFT. The two things are-- CUSINS. Baptism and-- UNDERSHAFT. No. Money and gunpowder. CUSINS [surprised, but interested] That is the general opinion of our governing classes. The novelty is in hearing any man confess it. UNDERSHAFT. Just so. CUSINS. Excuse me: is there any place in your religion for honor, justice, truth, love, mercy and so forth? UNDERSHAFT. Yes: they are the graces and luxuries of a rich, strong, and safe life. CUSINS. Suppose one is forced to choose between them and money or gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. Choose money and gunpowder; for without enough of both you cannot afford the others. CUSINS. That is your religion? UNDERSHAFT. Yes. The cadence of this reply makes a full close in the conversation. Cusins twists his face dubiously and contemplates Undershaft. Undershaft contemplates him. CUSINS. Barbara won't stand that. You will have to choose between your religion and Barbara. UNDERSHAFT. So will you, my friend. She will find out that that drum of yours is hollow. CUSINS. Father Undershaft: you are mistaken: I am a sincere Salvationist. You do not understand the Salvation Army. It is the army of joy, of love, of courage: it has banished the fear and remorse and despair of the old hellridden evangelical sects: it marches to fight the devil with trumpet and drum, with music and dancing, with banner and palm, as becomes a sally from heaven by its happy garrison. It picks the waster out of the public house and makes a man of him: it finds a worm wriggling in a back kitchen, and lo! a woman! Men and women of rank too, sons and daughters of the Highest. It takes the poor professor of Greek, the most artificial and self-suppressed of human creatures, from his meal of roots, and lets loose the rhapsodist in him; reveals the true worship of Dionysos to him; sends him down the public street drumming dithyrambs [he plays a thundering flourish on the drum]. UNDERSHAFT. You will alarm the shelter. CUSINS. Oh, they are accustomed to these sudden ecstasies of piety. However, if the drum worries you-- [he pockets the drumsticks; unhooks the drum; and stands it on the ground opposite the gateway]. UNDERSHAFT. Thank you. CUSINS. You remember what Euripides says about your money and gunpowder? UNDERSHAFT. No. CUSINS [declaiming] One and another In money and guns may outpass his brother; And men in their millions float and flow And seethe with a million hopes as leaven; And they win their will; or they miss their will; And their hopes are dead or are pined for still: But whoe'er can know As the long days go That to live is happy, has found his heaven. My translation: what do you think of it? UNDERSHAFT. I think, my friend, that if you wish to know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, you must first acquire money enough for a decent life, and power enough to be your own master. CUSINS. You are damnably discouraging. [He resumes his declamation]. Is it so hard a thing to see That the spirit of God--whate'er it be-- The Law that abides and changes not, ages long, The Eternal and Nature-born: these things be strong. What else is Wisdom? What of Man's endeavor, Or God's high grace so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free? to breathe and wait? To hold a hand uplifted over Fate? And shall not Barbara be loved for ever? UNDERSHAFT. Euripides mentions Barbara, does he? CUSINS. It is a fair translation. The word means Loveliness. UNDERSHAFT. May I ask--as Barbara's father--how much a year she is to be loved for ever on? CUSINS. As Barbara's father, that is more your affair than mine. I can feed her by teaching Greek: that is about all. UNDERSHAFT. Do you consider it a good match for her? CUSINS [with polite obstinacy] Mr Undershaft: I am in many ways a weak, timid, ineffectual person; and my health is far from satisfactory. But whenever I feel that I must have anything, I get it, sooner or later. I feel that way about Barbara. I don't like marriage: I feel intensely afraid of it; and I don't know what I shall do with Barbara or what she will do with me. But I feel that I and nobody else must marry her. Please regard that as settled.--Not that I wish to be arbitrary; but why should I waste your time in discussing what is inevitable? UNDERSHAFT. You mean that you will stick at nothing not even the conversion of the Salvation Army to the worship of Dionysos. CUSINS. The business of the Salvation Army is to save, not to wrangle about the name of the pathfinder. Dionysos or another: what does it matter? UNDERSHAFT [rising and approaching him] Professor Cusins you are a young man after my own heart. CUSINS. Mr Undershaft: you are, as far as I am able to gather, a most infernal old rascal; but you appeal very strongly to my sense of ironic humor. Undershaft mutely offers his hand. They shake. UNDERSHAFT [suddenly concentrating himself] And now to business. CUSINS. Pardon me. We were discussing religion. Why go back to such an uninteresting and unimportant subject as business? UNDERSHAFT. Religion is our business at present, because it is through religion alone that we can win Barbara. CUSINS. Have you, too, fallen in love with Barbara? UNDERSHAFT. Yes, with a father's love. CUSINS. A father's love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it. UNDERSHAFT. Keep to the point. We have to win her; and we are neither of us Methodists. CUSINS. That doesn't matter. The power Barbara wields here--the power that wields Barbara herself--is not Calvinism, not Presbyterianism, not Methodism-- UNDERSHAFT. Not Greek Paganism either, eh? CUSINS. I admit that. Barbara is quite original in her religion. UNDERSHAFT [triumphantly] Aha! Barbara Undershaft would be. Her inspiration comes from within herself. CUSINS. How do you suppose it got there? UNDERSHAFT [in towering excitement] It is the Undershaft inheritance. I shall hand on my torch to my daughter. She shall make my converts and preach my gospel. CUSINS. What! Money and gunpowder! UNDERSHAFT. Yes, money and gunpowder; freedom and power; command of life and command of death. CUSINS [urbanely: trying to bring him down to earth] This is extremely interesting, Mr Undershaft. Of course you know that you are mad. UNDERSHAFT [with redoubled force] And you? CUSINS. Oh, mad as a hatter. You are welcome to my secret since I have discovered yours. But I am astonished. Can a madman make cannons? UNDERSHAFT. Would anyone else than a madman make them? And now [with surging energy] question for question. Can a sane man translate Euripides? CUSINS. No. UNDERSHAFT [reining him by the shoulder] Can a sane woman make a man of a waster or a woman of a worm? CUSINS [reeling before the storm] Father Colossus--Mammoth Millionaire-- UNDERSHAFT [pressing him] Are there two mad people or three in this Salvation shelter to-day? CUSINS. You mean Barbara is as mad as we are! UNDERSHAFT [pushing him lightly off and resuming his equanimity suddenly and completely] Pooh, Professor! let us call things by their proper names. I am a millionaire; you are a poet; Barbara is a savior of souls. What have we three to do with the common mob of slaves and idolaters? [He sits down again with a shrug of contempt for the mob]. CUSINS. Take care! Barbara is in love with the common people. So am I. Have you never felt the romance of that love? UNDERSHAFT [cold and sardonic] Have you ever been in love with Poverty, like St Francis? Have you ever been in love with Dirt, like St Simeon? Have you ever been in love with disease and suffering, like our nurses and philanthropists? Such passions are not virtues, but the most unnatural of all the vices. This love of the common people

knew

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

earth

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

none

How many times the word 'none' appears in the text?

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

assumed--"being

How many times the word 'assumed--"being' appears in the text?

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

smile

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

respectively

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

downe

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

thornes

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

helpe

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

c

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

pair

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

wealth

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

evident

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

courtesie

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

never

How many times the word 'never' appears in the text?

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

fingers

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

way

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

exit

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

faith

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

guard

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

you may. A] to leave. A--G] Lady bedfellow. ll. 26 and 27. A] bedfellow here for a spincer. l. 31. Folio] may. l. 32. A] I, some would. ll. 33 and 34. A gives these two speeches to the King and Pharamont respectively. l. 37 A gives this speech to Galatea. A] the search my selfe. l. 38. A] Enter the Princesse solus. l. 39. A] finde out the way. p. 123, l. 3. A] or mountaines. A--C] through. l. 4. A _adds_ stage-direction] She sits downe. l. 5. A] Enter Boy. l. 6. A] Yonder my Lady is. A] gods knowes. B and C] god knowes. l.9. A] grounds. l.12. A _omits_] more. A] twines. l. 13. F, G] [oh. H] he stirres. l. 14. A] i'st. 1. 18. A _omits_] I am well. l. 24. A--H] you gods. l. 25. A] Who's hee. l. 26. A] ease it with his tongue. l. 27. A, B and C] helpe, helpe. l. 29. A] lightnings. l. 31. A, B and C] trust the tongues. A, B and C with variations of spelling _add_] of hell-bred women [B woman]. Some good god looke downe. l. 33. A _omits_] ages in the. l. 35. A--G] put hills of fire. A] my breast. p. 124, l. 2. D--G] makes. l.3. B] through. l.5. A]to inrage. l.8. D, E and G] looks up. l. 9. A _omits_] it. B] know't. l. 10. A _omits_] do but. l. 16. A] thy way. l. 18. A] you have. l. 19. A] in more. l. 20. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. A] madmens. l. 23. A gives this speech to 'Boy', and the following speech to 'Prin.' l. 24. A, B and C] the world. l. 25. Folio _misprints_] _Pha_. l. 28. A adds stage-direction] Exit Boy. B] Exit Bell. l. 29. A] meetings. l. 32. B--H] fortune. l. 33. A] peace with earth. l. 34. A and B] there will. l. 35. A--E] jealousie. A] no il here. l. 37. A] Shew me the way to joy. p. 125, l. 2. A] to 't. l. 4. A] Countrey Gallant. l. 5. A] I will. 1. 6. A] this two houres. C, D and E] these two houre. l. 8. B] then then. E, G and H] out rid. l. 9. A] strong braines. l. 10. A] The whooping would put a man. l. 12. A _adds_] Phy. wounds her. l. 13. A--heaven. l. 14. A] Nay, they. l. 16. A] thoud'st. C--H] wouldest. A, B and C _omit_] of. l. 17. B and C] veines. A] with a man. l. 21. A] God judge me. B and C] God uds me. l. 25. A] Rethrack. l. 26. A prints 'They fight' at the end of the following line. l. 28. A] Gods guard. B and C] Heaven. l. 31. A] would this bore. l. 33. A] though I doe lose it. l. 34. A prints 'Exit Phy.' after the word 'Rogue' in the following line. l. 36. A _omits_] and. p. 126, l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 6. A and B] By God she lies. A] i' the breast. l. 7. A] Oh secret spring. l.12. A] Omnes. l. l. 14. A] But who has done it. l. 16. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 19. A] I let. l. 20. A] about 's eares. l. 23. A] By this ayre. A--E] never. A _omits_] of him. l. 24. B and C] all to you in my hat. l. 28. A] sinne. l. 29. F] I will. I will. l. 31. A, B and C] Woodman. l. 32. A] unto the King. l. 34. A prints simply] Exit. l. 36. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 37. A, B and C] of this. A] I'le see. B--H] goe to see. l. 38. A] Enter the Boy. l. 39. A] O heavens! heavy death sits on my brow. p. 127, l. 2. A] sweete on all. l. 5. A] my eyes. l. 6. A _omits_\ Oh. 1. 17. A prints stage-direction after the word 'broken' in l. 19. l. 21. A] but my blood. l. 24. A] upon his sleeping body, he has none. l. 25. A] He wounds him. l. 27. A] it wisht. A] for pittie. l. 28. A prints after the first 'here' in following line] Phy. falls downe. l. 36. A] Hide, hide. 1. 39. B--G] were it. p. 128, l. 1. A _omits_] little. l. 2. A] has not. l. 4. A] Art thou then true to me. l. 5. A _omits_] good. l. 6. A] these. l. 7. A] your breeth in't, Shromd. l. n. A _omits_ one 'follow.' l. 14. A _omits_] That. A _adds_] Boy falls downe. l.15. B--H _omit_] and. l. 16. A] I tract. l.17. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the next to Cleremont. l. 22. A gives this speech to Thrasiline. l. 23. A] it is. l. 25. F] the creation. 1. 26. A and B] to strike. l. 31. A, B and C] did make. l. 34. A] tortour. l. 36. A] My. l. 37. A gives this speech to Cleremont. p. 129, l. 1. A, B and C] carelesse. l. 4. A] them. l. 6. A] Sines. 1. 14. A] vigour. A prints the stage-direction at the end of the following line. 1. 16. A] innocents. l. 17. A] know you the price of what. l. 19. A] My Lord Phylaster. A _omits_] Tis. l. 23. H] as hurt. l. 24. A] on a Pyramades. l. 26. A] as you. l. 27. A] teach the under-world. l. 32. A] this untimely courtesie. l. 33. C--H] he is. A] you beare me hence. 1. 35. A] to punish. l. 38. A, B and C] by all the gods. p. 130. A gives the first five speeches to Dion, Thrasiline, Bellario, Dion and Bellario respectively. l. 2. C] Is it. l. 3. A] Well, I feare me sir, we. B--H] fear me, we. A _omits_] all. l. 9. A] gentlie. B--G] gently. l. 10. A and B] breath forth my. l. 11. A] Not all the wealth of Pluto. l. 17. A] a cleere. l. 18. A, B and C] bitter. l. 19. A] haires. l. 20. A] bathe them. l. 21. A] Enter the King, Princesse, and a guard. l. 23. A gives this speech to Dion. A] but sute it was Phylaster. l. 24. A gives this speech to the King, and the following one to Pharamond. l. 25. A--D] will tell us that. l. 26. A] Ay me, I know him well. l. 28. A] Sir, if it were he. l. 32. beare them. l. 35. A _omits_] go. l. 36. A] loves. 1. 37. A _omits_] and. l. 38. A--G] deaths. l. 39. A] your law. p. 131 I. 3. A] We shall. A] on with our intended match. A _adds_] Exit King and Pharamont. l. 4. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion, and the following one to Cleremont. l. 7. A _omits_] Omnes. B--H _add_] Finis Actus quarti. l. 10. This speech and the seven succeeding ones are given by A to 'Leon' (Dion), Cleremont, Thrasiline, 'Leon', Thrasiline, Cleremont, 'Leon' and Thrasiline respectively. l. 19. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 20. A] shufle. A _omits_] Exeunt. l. 21. A] Enter Phylaster, Princesse, Boy, in prison. B--H omit] and. l. 22. A, B and C] Nay faith Philaster. l.23. B] forbeare, were wondrous well. l.24. A] and Bellario. l. 25. A] shut. A _omits_] as now from Earth. l. 27. A] the truest ones. l. 29. A] forgive me, and. p. 132, l. 2. A--G] Should I outlive you. A] I should out live. B--H] I should then outlive. l. 3. A] come. l. 4. A--H] shall close. l. 6. A] waste by time. B] waste by limbs. l. 7. A--G] that ever. A] ever liv'd. 1. 10. A] houre behind it. l. 15. A] Kingdome. l. 17. A] Every just maiden. l. 19. A] My deerest, say not so. l. 21. A] woman. l.26. A] Why? what. l. 28. A] life no whit compared. l. 32. B] your pardon. 1. 36. A gives this speech to 'Prin.', i.e., Arethusa. p. 133, l. 1. A] Enter the King, Leon, Cle., Tra. and a guard. B--H _omit_] and. l. 3. A gives this speech to 'Leon', i.e., Dion. l. 4. A] Plotforme. 1. 8. A gives this speech to Cleremont. l. 9. A _adds_] Exit Tra. 1. 12. A] to lose it. A--E] lightly. A after the word 'lightly' adds stage-direction] aside. l. 14. A] stocke. l. 17. A] weightier. l. 18. A] the heate. l. 20. A] and leaves them desolate. l. 24. A] Enter Phi., Princesse, Boy, with a garland of flowers on's head. B--H _omit_ the first 'and.' l. 16. A] shal. l.27. A] Epethelamon. A _omits_] of these lovers. l. 18. F] But have lost. l. 30. A _omits_] on. l. 31. A] C dor. l. 32. A] mountaines. 1.35. A] free from the firver of the Serian starre. B--G] Sirian. l.37-A, B and C] deliver. A] that issues. p. 134, l. 1. A--D] pleased. l. 2. A] base, under branches, to devour. 1. 4. A] did choake. B--D] choake. l. 5. A] brakes, rud, thornes. A--G] the Sun. l. 6. A _omits_] even. A] roote. A] um there. l. 7. F _omits_] a. B and C] gentler. A] has. l. 9. A] never to be unarmde. l. 10. A, B and C] number. A _omits_] holy. A] ore. l. 11. A] has. F _omits_] noble. 1. 12. A] worthy king. l. 15. A, B and C] For now there. l. 17. A] bitter threats. l. 19. A--E] struggled. l. 22. A] where you. l. 28. A] Metour. l. 32. A] of venge-in. l. 33. A] chaft amongst. B--E] Chast. B--G] among. l. 35. A] looke from me. l. 37. A] that I have left. l. 38. F] There is. A _omits_] that. l. 40. A] For death to me can be life. p. 135 l. 1. A] as long as. l. 4. A] ore by. l. 8. A _omits_] dear. 1. 9. A] you are. A after this line _adds_] That feedes upon the blood you gave a life to. l. 14. A] a shame. l. 15. F] Pelican. l. 17. A _omits_] with purest. l. 32. A, B and C] that by the gods it is a joy. l. 37. A _omits_] you. p. 136, l. 1. A _omits_] Fearing. A] For the Lord Phylaster. l. 2. A] fellowes. l. 6. A _omits_ this line. l. 7. A] 2 Mes. B and C] Arme, arme, arme, arme. l. 8. A] take these Citizens. l. 9. A] them. l. 12. A _omits_] Exit with Are., Phi., Bell. l. 16. A] Exit King, Manet Leon, Cle. and Tra. l. 18. A] by al the gods. l. 25. A] you lackes. B] ye lacks. 1. 26. A] Skin. A] see you. B] have ye. l. 28. A] brave new. l. 29. A] My kinde Countrimen. l. 33. A] sawce. l. 34. A] flush amongst um, and ill speeding. 11. 34 and 35. A] have injurious raine. A _omits_] unbound. 11. 35 and 36. A] in rafine freeze. A] moth. l. 38. A] preases. p. 137, l. r. F] neck. l. 3. A] And know. l. 4. A] gotish. B and C] goatish. l. 10. A] wide. A] your valours. l. 11. A] we must. A] for't. A _omits_] 'em. l. 12. A] and you will. B--E] and they. l. 15. A] speake him well. l. 16. A] courtesies. l. 17. A _omits_] Exit Cle. l. 18. A] Citizens. l. 20. A _omits_] and soil you. ll. 21 and 22. A] Every long vocation; and foule shall come up fat And in brave liking. l. 21. B] ever long. l. 23. A] that poore. l. 24. A _omits_] and. l. 25. A _omits_] Sir. 1. 26. A--G] quench. l. 28. A] Enter Phylaster. l. 33. A] to 't. l. 34. A] Let me your goodnesse know. l. 36. A, B and C] All my wishes. l. 37. A] speakes all this. p. 138, l. 4. A _omits_} poor. l. 7. A] free her. l. 9. A] noble word. 1. 10. A] you peace. l. 12. A] Now all the. A _omits_] Exeunt Omnes. 1. 13. A] Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens leading Pharamont prisoner. l.15. B and C] your nimble. B--G] mother. l. 21. B and C] Kings. l. 22. E and G] you paintings. l. 25. B] beloved. B and C] Custards. l. 29. B--D] Collers. p. 139, l. 1. B] solder'd. l. 6. B] me see. l. 7. For 'lie' G prints 'ie' with a space at the beginning where the 'I' should be. H and the Folio _misprint_] here I it. l. 8. B] washing. B] do you see sweete Prince. C] do you sweet Prince. D, E, G and H] sweat. F] swet. l. 12. B--H and Folio J foe. l. 26. B--G] Nay my beyond, etc. l. 28. B--H] scarcenet. 1. 33. B and C] i Cit. l. 36. B--H] kills. p. 140, l. 4. D, E and G] God Captaine. l. 7. B and C] of your 2-hand sword. l. 9. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. l. n. B--E, G and H] 2 Ci. F] 2 Cit. B and C] had had. l. 12. C--G] skin bones. l. 35. B, C and D] stucke. E] stuck. l. 38. B--H] I do desire to be. p. 141, l. 2. F] thy name. l. 7. B--H] of all dangers. B--H] altogether. 1. 12. B and C] all these. l. 20. B--G] And make. B and F] He strives. l. 23. H] your friends. l. 34. B and C] Go thy wayes, thou art. p. 142, l. 2. B and C] attendance. l. 24. Folio _misprints_] is it. l. 33. B] and hath found. l. 35. F] knew. p. 143,1. 4. B--G with variations in spelling] To bear. B] her boy. l. 7. B--G] sometime. l. 9. D] wine. l. 17. B] As base as are. C _omits_] be. 1. 18. Folio _misprints_] hour. B] heated. l. 36. B--H] that boy. l. 38. B and C] word. l. 39. F--H] life and rig. p. 144, l. 6. B--G] were hateful. l. 11. B and C] oh stay. l. 12. F] Sir. l. 13. B] tire your constancy. p. 145, l. 9. F _omits_] it. l. 22. B and C _omit_] l. l. 27. B--G] All's. 1. 29. B--D make this line the conclusion of Philaster's speech, and consequently apply the marginal stage-direction to him. p. 146, l. 22. B--E] oft would. p. 147, l. 1. B--G] but have. l. 17. F _omits_] thou wilt. l. 31. B--H] vertue. l. 35. F] set us free. p. 148, l. 9. F] your self. l. 10. B--E] And like to see. l. 14. After this line B--F, H add] Finis. From p. 138, l. 13, to end of Play, A reads] _Enter an olde Captaine, with a crew of Citizens_, _leading_ PHARAMONT _prisoner_. CAP. Come my brave Mermedons, fal on, let your caps swarm, & your nimble tongues forget your gibrish, of what you lack, and set your mouthes ope' children, till your pallats fall frighted halfe a fathom past the cure of bay-salt & grosse pepper; and then crie _Phylaster_, brave _Phylaster_. Let _Phylaster_ be deep in request, my ding-a-dings, my paire of deare Indentures: King of clubs, the your cut-water- chamlets, and your painting: let not your hasty silkes, deerly belovers of Custards & Cheescakes, or your branch cloth of bodkins, or your tyffenies, your robbin-hood scarlet and Johns, tie your affections in durance to your shops, my dainty duckers, up with your three pil'd spirit's, that rightvalourous, and let your accute colours make the King to feele the measure of your mightinesse; Phylaster, cry, myrose nobles, cry. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylasier_. CAP. How doe you like this, my Lord prisoner? These are mad boyes I can tell you, These bee things that will not strike top-sayle to a Foyst, And let a Man of warre, an Argosea, Stoope to carry coales. PHAR. Why, you damn'd slaves, doe you know who I am? CAP. Yes, my pretie Prince of puppits, we do know, and give you gentle warning, you talke no more such bugs words, lest that sodden Crowne should be scracht with a musket; deare Prince pippin, I'le have you codled, let him loose my spirits, and make a ring with your bils my hearts: Now let mee see what this brave man dares doe: note sir, have at you with this washing blow, here I lie, doe you huffe sweete Prince? I could hock your grace, and hang you crosse leg'd, like a Hare at a Poulters stall; and do thus. PHAR. Gentlemen, honest Gentlemen-- SOUL. A speakes treason Captaine, shal's knock him downe? CAP. Hold, I say. 2 SOUL. Good Captaine let me have one mal at's mazard, I feele my stomacke strangely provoked to bee at his Spanish pot-nowle, shal's kill him? OMNES. I, kill him, kill him. CAP. Againe I say hold. 3 SOUL. O how ranke he lookes, sweete Captaine let's geld him, and send his dowsets for a dish to the Burdello. 4 SOUL. No, let's rather sell them to some woman Chymist, that extractions, shee might draw an excellent provocative oyle from useth them, that might be very usefull. CAP. You see, my scurvy Don, how precious you are in esteem amongst us, had you not beene better kept at home, I thinke you had: must you needes come amongst us, to have your saffron hide taw'd as wee intend it: My Don, _Phylaster_ must suffer death to satisfie your melancholly spleene, he must my Don, he must; but we your Physitians, hold it fit that you bleede for it: Come my robusticks, my brave regiment of rattle makers, let's cal a common cornuted counsell, and like grave Senators, beare up our brancht crests, in sitting upon the severall tortures we shall put him to, and with as little sense as may be, put your wils in execution. SOME CRIES. Burne him, burne him. OTHERS. Hang him, hang him. [Enter PHYLASTER. CAP. No, rather let's carbinade his cods-head, and cut him to collops: shall I begin? PHI. Stay your furies my loving Countrimen. OMNES. _Phylaster_ is come, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. CAP. My porcupines of spite, make roome I say, that I may salute my brave Prince: and is Prince _Phylaster_ at liberty? PHI. I am, most loving countrimen. CAP. Then give me thy Princely goll, which thus I kisse, to whom I crouch and bow; But see my royall sparke, this head-strong swarme that follow me humming like a master Bee, have I led forth their Hives, and being on wing, and in our heady flight, have seazed him shall suffer for thy wrongs. OMNES. I, I, let's kill him, kill him. PHI. But heare me, Countrimen. CAP. Heare the Prince, I say, heare _Phylaster_. OMNES. I, I, heare the Prince, heare the Prince. PHI. My comming is to give you thanks, my deere Countrimen, whose powerfull sway hath curb'd the prossecuting fury of my foes. OMNES. We will curb um, we will curb um. PHI. I finde you will, But if my intrest in your loves be such, As the world takes notice of, Let me crave You would deliver _Pharamont_ to my hand, And from me accept this [_Gives um his purse_. Testimonie of my love. Which is but a pittance of those ample thankes, Which shall redowne with showred courtesies. CAP. Take him to thee brave Prince, and we thy bounty thankefully accept, and will drinke thy health, thy perpetuall health my Prince, whilst memory lasts amongst us, we are thy Mermidons, my _Achillis_: we are those will follow thee, and in thy service will scowre our rusty murins and bill-bow-blades, most noble _Phylaster_, we will: Come my rowtists let's retyer till occasion calls us to attend the noble _Phylaster_. OMNES. _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_, _Phylaster_. [ _Exit_ CAPTAINE, and Citizens. PHAR. Worthy sir, I owe you a life, For but your selfe theres nought could have prevail'd. PHI. Tis the least of service that I owe the King, Who was carefull to preserve ye. [_Exit_. [_Enter_ LEON, TRASILINE, and CLERIMON. TRA. I ever thought the boy was honest. LEON. Well, tis a brave boy-Gentlemen. CLE. Yet you'ld not beleeve this. LEON. A plague on my forwardnesse, what a villaine was I, to wrong um so; a mischiefe on my muddy braines, was I mad? TRA. A little frantick in your rash attempt, but that was your love to _Phylaster_, sir. LEON. A pox on such love, have you any hope my countinance will ere serve me to looke on them? CLE. O very well Sir. LEON. Very ill Sir, uds death, I could beate out my braines, or hang my selfe in revenge. CLE. There would be little gotten by it, ene keepe you as ye are. LEON. An excellent boy, Gentlemen beleeve it, harke the King is comming, [ _Cornets sounds_. _Enter the King, Princesse_, GALLATEA, MEGRA, BELLARIO, _a Gentlewoman, and other attendants_. K. No newes of his returne, Will not this rable multitude be appeas'd? I feare their outrage, lest it should extend With dangering of _Pharamonts_ life. Enter _PHILASTER_ with _PHARAMONT_. LEON. See Sir, _Phylaster_ is return'd. PHI. Royall Sir, Receive into your bosome your desired peace, Those discontented mutineares be appeasde, And this fortaigne Prince in safety. K. How happie am I in thee _Phylaster_? Whose excellent vertues begets a world of love, I am indebted to thee for a Kingdome. I here surrender up all Soveraignetie, Raigne peacefully with thy espoused Bride, [_Delivers his Crowne to him_. Ashume my Son to take what is thy due. PHA. How Sir, yer son, what am I then, your Daughter you gave to me. KIN. But heaven hath made asignement unto him, And brought your contract to anullity: Sir, your entertainment hath beene most faire, Had not your hell-bred lust dride up the spring, From whence flow'd forth those favours that you found: I am glad to see you safe, let this suffice, Your selfe hath crost your selfe. LEON. They are married sir. PHAR. How married? I hope your highnesse will not use me so, I came not to be disgraced, and returne alone. KING. I cannot helpe it sir. LEON. To returne alone, you neede not sir, Here is one will beare you company. You know this Ladies proofe, if you Fail'd not in the say-taging. ME. I hold your scoffes in vildest base contempt, Or is there said or done, ought I repent, But can retort even to your grinning teeths, Your worst of spights, tho Princesse lofty steps May not be tract, yet may they tread awry, That boy there-- BEL. If to me ye speake Lady, I must tell you, you have lost your selfe In your too much forwardnesse, and hath forgot Both modesty and truth, with what impudence You have throwne most damnable aspertions On that noble Princesse and my selfe: witnesse the world; Behold me sir. [_Kneeles to_ LEON, _and discovers her haire_. LEON. I should know this face; my daughter. BEL. The same sir. PRIN. How, our sometime Page, _Bellario_, turn'd woman? BEL. Madame, the cause induc't me to transforme my selfe, Proceeded from a respective modest Affection I bare to my my Lord, The Prince _Phylaster_, to do him service, As farre from any lacivious thought, As that Lady is farre from goodnesse, And if my true intents may be beleeved, And from your Highnesse Madame, pardon finde, You have the truth. PRIN. I doe beleeve thee, _Bellario_ I shall call thee still. PHI. The faithfullest servant that ever gave attendance. LEON. Now Lady lust, what say you to'th boy now; Doe you hang the head, do ye, shame would steale Into your face, if ye had grace to entertaine it, Do ye slinke away? [ _Exit_ MEGRA _hiding her face_, KING. Give present order she be banisht the Court, And straightly confinde till our further Pleasure is knowne. PHAR. Heres such an age of transformation, that I doe not know how to trust my selfe, I'le get me gone to: Sir, the disparagement you have done, must be cald in question. I have power to right my selfe, and will. [ _Exit_ PHARAMONT. KING. We feare ye not Sir. PHI. Let a strong convoy guard him through the Kingdome, With him, let's part with all our cares and feare, And Crowne with joy our happy loves successe. KING. Which to make more full, Lady _Gallatea_, Let honour'd _Clerimont_ acceptance finde In your chast thoughts. PHI. Tis my sute too. PRIN. Such royall spokes-men must not be deni'd. GAL. Nor shall not, Madame. KING. Then thus I joyne your hands. GAL. Our hearts were knit before. [ _They kisse_. PHI. But tis you Lady, must make all compleat, And gives a full perod to content, Let your loves cordiall againe revive, The drooping spirits of noble _Trasiline_. What saies Lord _Leon_ to it? LEON. Marry my Lord I say, I know she once lov'd him. At least made shew she did, But since tis my Lord _Phylasters_ desire, I'le make a surrender of all the right A father has in her; here take her sir, With all my heart, and heaven give you joy. KING. Then let us in these nuptuall feastes to hold, Heaven hath decreed, and Fate stands uncontrold. FINIS. PHILASTER. VERSE AND PROSE VARIATIONS. The variations are those of A except where otherwise stated. p. 78, l. 35. A prints this speech as prose. p. 79, l. 39, and p. 80, l. 1. A reads as one line. p. 80, 11. 6 and 7. One line. ll. 8 and 9. One line. l. 11. A gives this speech as prose. ll. 37--40, and p. 81, l. r. Four lines ending bold, Turcle, shaddow, over. p. 81, ll. 12--17. Five lines ending _armes, hath, disputing, are, me_. 1. 19. Eight lines ending _him, his, thine, cold, such, follies, presence, me_. l. 28. This speech in two lines ending _freedome_, _temperde_. l. 32. This speech in four lines ending _succession_, _is_, _within_, _knowledge_. p. 82, ll. 1 and 2. One line. l.9. C, D, E] two lines, _them_, _Atlas_. l. 18. This speech and the next as prose. l. 33. The rest of the speech in seven lines, ending _whispers_, _will_, _there_, _service_, _factious_, _hand_, _servant_. l. 39. B, C, D, E] two lines, _hand_, _servant_. p. 83, ll. 1-4. Prose. l. 14. This speech and the next prose. ll. 29-31. Two lines ending _please_ and _yeares_. l. 33. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 84, ll. 2-4. Two lines ending _Age_ and _me_. ll. 6-11. Four lines ending _Gentlewoman_, _alive_, _idle_, _pilgrimage_. ll. 22 and 23. Prose. l. 26. This speech and the next in prose. p. 85, ll. 1 and 2. One line. ll. 3-32. Prose. ll. 34-38. Four lines ending _with-_, _make_, _your_, _obay_. l. 40 and p. 86, l. 1. One line. p. 86, ll. 4-11. Seven lines ending _say_, _woman_, _them_, _detracted_, _you_, _disgrace_, _vertues_. ll. 14-16. Two lines ending _fortunes_, _question_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _affoord_, _wisht_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-32. Four lines ending _stories_, _Crowne_, _longing_, _more_. p. 87, ll. 1-12. Ten lines ending _dreadfully_, _he_, _tongue_, _his_, _begin_, _love_, _you_, _beg_, _price_, _heare_. ll. 17-19. Two lines ending _yet_, _in_. ll. 21-23. Prose. ll. 26-30. Prose. ll. 34-40. Six lines ending _so_, _better_, _gods_, _some_, _us_, _it_. l. 30. B, C, D, E] two lines, _man_, _jealous_. p. 88, ll. 1-6. Five lines ending _long_, _often_, _intelligence_, _agree_, _tread_. l. 6. B, C, D, E] two lines, _agree_, _tread_. l. 7. B, C, D, E] two lines, _boy_, _intent_. l. 7. This speech in prose. p. 89, l. 2. B, C, D, E] two lines, _selfe_, _Prince_. l. 7. B, D, E] two lines, _made_, _himselfe_. l. 7. Two lines ending _Phylaster_ and _himselfe_. ll. 10 and 11. Two lines ending _ever_, _lie_. ll. 18-20. Two lines ending _ceremonies_ and _heart_. ll. 21 and 22. One line. ll. 27-29. Prose. l. 38. This speech in prose. p. 90, ll. 4 and 5. Two lines ending _much_, _Princesse_. l. 6. This speech and the next in prose. l. 16. This speech beginning from 'Madam' and the next speech in prose. ll. 29-34. Six lines ending _regard_, _modesty_, _aske_, _deserve_, _nothing_, _yours_. l. 32. B, C, D, E] two lines, _aske_, _deserve_. l. 35. The rest of the speech in prose. p. 91, ll. 6-11. Prose. ll. 13-17. Prose. l. 18 and B, C, D, E] two lines ending _all_, _behaviour_. ll. 19-29. Ten lines ending _ignorance_, _learne_, _larger_, _fault_, _once_, _boy_, _warning_, _stubborneness_, _off_, _mend_. ll. 32-40. Seven lines ending _businesse_, _her_, _full_, _trust_, _joy_, _weepe_, _Princesse_. p. 92, ll. 1-12. Prose. ll. 14-20. Nine lines ending _must_, _not_, _word_, _all_, _taking_, _life_, _fault_, _boulted_, _Madame_. p. 93, ll. 5-12. Nine lines ending _grace_, _remedy_, _morning_, _Cardus_, _exercise_, _Tiller_, _Flebotomie_, _whay_, _anymales_. ll. 15-18. Four lines ending _well_, _appetite_, _gold_, _then_. ll. 25 and 26. Two lines ending _behind_, _this_. p. 94, ll. 5 and 6. Two lines ending _enough_, _Age_. ll. 7 and 8. Two lines ending _smooth_, _enough_. ll. 16-23. Prose. l. 24. Two lines ending _prose_, _Madame_. l. 27. Two lines ending _first_, _now_. ll. 30-32. Two lines ending _sweetest_, _me_. ll. 35 and 36. Three lines ending _sentence, memory, me_. ll. 38-40. Three lines ending _endeavour_, _night_, _for't_. p. 95, ll. 1--20. Twenty-one lines ending _owne, teaching, measures, function, selfe, her, her, indeed, sir,

lackes

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

north

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

bright

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

bad

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

eye

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

swiftly

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

crown

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

pricked

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

smirk

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

made

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

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you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

despair

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

perhaps

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

believe

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

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you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

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you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

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you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

other

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you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

astrologer

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

montejanos

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

you speak as if any one ever, in all the world, could be fit to compare with you? But now you must tell me one little thing--why have you chosen this very day, which ought to be such a happy one, for telling me so sad a tale, that a little more would have made me cry? The reason, my Lallie, is simple enough. This happens to be the very day when the two hundred years are over; and the astrologer s will, or whatever the document is, may now be opened. His will, papa! Did he leave a will? And none of us ever heard of it! My dear, your acquaintance with his character is, perhaps, not exhaustive. He may have left many wills without wishing to have them published; at any rate, you shall have the chance, before it grows dark, to see what there is. Me! or I--whichever is right?--me, or I, to do such a thing! Papa, when I was six years old I could stand on my head; but now I have lost the art, alas! Now, Alice, do try to be sensible, if you ever had such an opening. You know that I do not very often act rashly; but you will make me think I have done so now, unless you behave most steadily. Papa, I am steadiness itself; but you must make allowance for a little upset at the marvels heaped upon me. My dear child, there are no marvels; or, at any rate, none for you to know. All you have to do is to go, and to fetch a certain document. Whether you know any more about it, is a question for me to consider. Oh, papa--to raise me up so, and to cast me down like that! And I was giving you credit for having trusted me so entirely! And very likely you would not even have sent me for this document, if you had your own way about it. Alice, Sir Roland answered, smiling at her knowledge of him, you happen to be particularly right in that conjecture. I should never have thought of sending you to a lonely and forsaken place, if I were allowed to send any one else, or to go myself. And I have not been happy at thinking about it, ever since the morning. My father, do you think that I could help rejoicing in such an errand? It is the very thing to suit me. Where are the keys, papa? Do be quick. I have no intention, my dear child, of hurrying either you or myself. There is plenty of time to think of all things. The sun has not set, and that happens to be one of the little things we have to look to. Oh, how very delightful, papa! That makes it so much more beautiful. And it is the astrologer s room, of course. My dear, it strikes me that you look rather pale, in the midst of all your transports. Now, don t go if you are at all afraid. Afraid, papa! Now you want to provoke me. You quite forget both my age, it appears, and the family I belong to. My pet, you never allow us to be very long forgetful of either of those great facts; but I trust I have borne them both duly in mind, and I fear that I should even enhance, most needlessly, your self-esteem, if I were to read you the directions which I now am following. For, strangely enough, they do contain predictions as to your character such as we cannot yet perceive (much as we love you) to have come to pass. Oh, but who are the we, papa? If everybody knows it--even grandmamma, for instance--what pleasure can I hope to find in ever having been predicted? You may enjoy that pleasure, Alice, as exclusively as you please. Even your grandmother knows nothing of the matter we have now in hand; or else--at least I should say perhaps that, if it were otherwise---- She would have been down here, of course, papa, and have marched up to the room herself; but, if the whole thing belongs to one s self, nothing can be more delightful than to have been predicted, especially in glowing terms, such as I beg you now, papa, to read in glowing tones to me. Alice, I do not like that style of--what shall I call it?--on your part. _Persiflage_, I believe, is the word; and I am glad that there is no English one. It is never graceful in any woman, still less in a young girl like you. Hilary brought it from Oxford first: and perhaps he thought it excellent. Lay it aside now, once and for all. It hopes to seem a clever thing, and it does not even succeed in that. At these severe words, spoken with a decided attempt at severity, Alice fell back, and could only drop her eyes, and wonder what could have made her father so cross upon his birthday. But, after the smart of the moment, she began to acknowledge to herself that her father was right, and she was wrong. This flippant style was foreign to her, and its charms must be foregone. I beg your pardon, father dear, she said, looking softly up at him; I know that I am not clever, and I never meant to seem so. Quite right, Alice; never attempt to do anything impossible. Saying this to her, Sir Roland said to himself that, after all, he should like to know very much where to find any girl half so clever as Lallie, or any girl even a quarter so good, and so loving, and so beautiful. The sun is almost gone behind the curve of the hill, and the scrubby beech, and the nick cut in the gorsebush. Alice, you know we only see it for just the Midsummer week like that. Alice came, with her eyes already quit of every trace of tears; with vanity and all petty feelings melting into larger thought. The beauty of the world would often come around and overcome her, so that she felt nothing else. The sun must always be the same, Sir Roland said, rather doubtfully, after waiting for Alice to begin. No doubt he must always be the same; but still the great Herschel seems to think that even the sun is changing. If he is fed by comets (as our old astronomers used to say), he ought to be doing very well just now. Alice, the sun is above ground still, for people on the hill-top, and there is the comet already kindling! Of course he is, papa; he never waits for the sun s convenience. But I must not say that--I forgot. There would be no English name for it--would there now, papa? You little tyrant, what troubles I would inflict upon you if I studied the stars! But I scarcely know the belt of Orion from the Northern Crown. Astronomy does not appear to have taken deep root in our family; but look, there is part of the sun again emerging under Chancton! In five minutes more he will be quite gone; now is the time for me to read these queer directions, which contain so poetical an account of you. Alice, warned by his former words, and reduced to proper humility, did not speak while her father opened the small strip of parchment, at which she had so long been peeping curiously. It is written in Latin, Sir Roland said, and has been handed from father to son unsealed, and as you see it, from the time of the prince till our time. May I see it, papa? What a very clear hand! but you must translate it for me. Then here it is:-- To the father and master of the family of Lorraine, whoever shall be in the year, according to Christian computation, 1811, Agasicles Syennesis, the Carian, bids hail. Do thou, on the 18th day of June, when the sun has well descended, or departed --_decesserit_, the word is-- send thy eldest daughter, without any companion, to the astronomer s _c naculum_ --why, he never ate supper, the poor old fellow, unless it was the one he died of-- and there let her search in a closet or cupboard --_in secessu muri_, the words are, as far as I can make out-- and she will find a small document, which to me has been in great price. There will also be something else, to be treated _pro re nata_ --that means according to circumstances-- and according to the orders in the document aforesaid. The virgin will be brave, and beautiful, ready to give herself for the house, and of swiftly-growing prudence. If there be no such virgin then the need for her will not have arisen. It is necessary that no young man should go, and my document must lie hidden for another century. It is not possible that any one of uncertain skill should be certain. But there ought to be a great comet also burning in the sky, of the same complexion as the one that makes my calculations doubtful. Farewell, whosoever thou shalt be, from me descended, and obey me. Papa, I declare it quite frightens me. How could he have predicted me, for instance, and this great comet, and even you? Then you think that you answer to your description! My darling, I do believe that you do. But you never shall give yourself for the house, or for fifty thousand houses. Now, will you have anything to do with this strange affair; or will you not? Much rather would I hear you say that you will have nothing to do with it, and that the old man s book may sleep for at least another century. Now, papa, you know how much you would be disappointed in me. And do you think that I could have any self-respect remaining? And beside all that, how could I hope to sleep in my bed with all those secrets ever dangling over me? That last is a very important point. With your excitable nature, you had better go always through a thing. It was the same with your dear mother. Here are the keys, my daughter. I really feel ashamed to dwell so long on a mere superstition. CHAPTER IX. THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER. The room known as the Astrologer s (by the maids, less reverently entitled the star-gazer s closet ) was that old eight-sided, or lantern-chamber, which has been mentioned in the short account of the Carian sage and his labours. He had used it alternately, with his other quarters in the Chancton Ring; for this had outlook of the rising, as the other had of the setting stars. At the eastern end of the house, it stood away from roofs and chimney-tops, commanding the trending face of hill, and the amplitude of the world below, from north-west round the north and east, to the rising point of Fomalhault. To this room Alice now made her way, as if she had no time to spare. With quick, light steps she passed through the hall, and then the painted library, as it was called from some old stained glass--and at the further end she entered a little room with double doors, her father s favourite musing-place. In the eastern end of this quiet chamber, and at the eastern end of all, there was a low and narrow door. This was seldom locked, because none of the few who came so far would care to go any further. For it opened to a small landing-place, dimly lit, as well as damp, and leading to a newel staircase, narrow, and made of a chalky flint, angular and irregular. Alice stopped to think a little. All things looked so uninviting that she would rather keep her distance. Surely now that the sun had departed--whether well or otherwise--some other time would do as nicely for going on with the business. There was nothing said of any special hurry, so far as she could remember; and what could be a more stupid thing than to try to unlock an ancient door without any light for the keyhole? She had a very great mind to go back, and to come again in the morning. She turned with a quick turn towards the light, and the comfort, and the company; then suddenly she remembered how she had boasted of her courage; and who would be waiting to laugh at her, if she came back without her errand. Fearing further thought, she ran like a sunset cloud up the stairway. Fifty or sixty steps went by her before she had time to think of them; a few in the light of loopholes, but the greater part in governed gloom, or shadowy mixture flickering. Then at the top she stopped to breathe, and recover her wits, for a moment. Here a long black door repelled her--a door whose outside she knew pretty well, but had no idea of the other side. Upon this, she began to think again; and her thoughts were almost too much for her. With a little sigh that would have moved all imaginable enemies, the swiftly sensitive girl called up the inborn spirit of her race, and her own peculiar romance. These in combination scarcely could have availed her to turn the key, unless her father had happened to think of oiling it with a white pigeon s feather. When she heard the bolt shoot back, she made the best of a bad affair. In for a penny, in for a pound; faint heart is fain; two bites at a cherry; and above all, noblesse oblige. With all these thoughts to press her forward, in she walked, quite dauntlessly. And lo, there was nothing to frighten her. Everything looked as old and harmless as the man who had loved them all; having made or befriended them. His own little lathe, with its metal bed (cast by himself from a mixture of his own, defying the rust of centuries), wanted nothing more than dusting, and some oil on the bearings. And the speculum he had worked so hard at, for a reflecting telescope--partly his own idea, and partly reflected (as all ideas are) some years ere the time of Gregory--the error in its grinding, which had driven him often to despair, might still be traced by an accurate eye through the depth of two hundred dusty years. Models, patterns, moulds, and castings,--many of which would have shown how slowly our boasted discoveries have grown,--also favourite tools, and sundry things past out of their meaning, lay about among their fellows, doomed alike to do no work, because the man who had kept them moving was shorter-lived than they were. Now young Alice stood among them, in a reverential way. They were, of course, no more than other things laid by to rust, according to man s convenience. And yet she could not make up her mind to meddle with any one of them. So that she only looked about, and began to be at home with things. Her eager mind was always ready to be crowded with a rash young interest in all things. It was the great fault of her nature that she never could perceive how very far all little things should lie beneath her notice. So that she now had really more than she could contrive to take in all at once. But while she stood in this surprise, almost forgetting her errand among the multitude of ideas, a cloud above the sunset happened to be packed with gorgeous light. Unbosoming itself to the air in the usual cloudy manner, it managed thereby to shed down some bright memories of the departed one. And hence there came a lovely gleam of daylight s afterthought into the north-western facet of the old eight-sided room. Alice crossed this glance of sunset, wondering what she was to do, until she saw her shadow wavering into a recess of wall. There, between the darker windows to the right hand of the door, a little hover of refraction, striking upon reflection, because it was fugitive, caught her eyes. She saw by means of this a keyhole in a brightened surface, on a heavy turn of wall that seemed to have no meaning. In right of discovery up she ran, passed her fingers over a plate of polished Sussex iron, and put her key into the hole, of course. The lock had been properly oiled perhaps, and put into working order sometimes, even within the last hundred years. But still it was so stiff that Alice had to work the key both ways, and with both hands, ere it turned. And even after the bolt went back, she could not open the door at once, perhaps because the jamb was rusty, or the upper hinge had given forward. Whatever the hesitation was, the girl would have no refusal. She set the key crosswise in the lock, and drew one corner of her linen handkerchief through the loop of it, and then tied a knot, and, with both hands, pulled. Inasmuch as her handkerchief was not made of gauze, or lace, or gossamer, and herself of no feeble material, the heavy door gave way at last, and everything lay before her. Is that all? oh, is that all? she cried in breathless disappointment, and yet laughing at herself. No jewels, no pearls, no brooches, or buckles, or even a gold watch! And the great Astrologer must have foreseen how sadly, in this year of our reckoning, I should be longing for a gold watch! Alas! without it, what is the use of being brave and beautiful ? Here is nothing more than dust, mouldy old deeds, and a dirty cushion! Alice had a great mind at first to run back to her father and tell him that, after all, there was nothing found that would be worth the carrying. And she even turned, and looked round the room, to support this strong conclusion. But the weight of ancient wisdom (pressed on the young imagination by the stamp of mystery) held her under, and made her stop from thinking her own thoughts about it. He must have known better, of course, than I do. Only look at his clever tools! I am sure I could live in this room for a week, and never be afraid of anything. But even while she was saying this to herself, with the mind in command of the heart, and a fine conscientious courage, there came to her ears, or seemed to come, a quiet, low, unaccountable sound. It may have been nothing, as she tried to think, when first she began to recover herself; or it may have been something, quite harmless, and most easily traced to its origin. But whatever it was, in a moment it managed to quench her desire to live in that room. With quick hands, now delivered from their usual keen sense of grime, she snatched up whatever she saw in the cupboard, and banged the iron door and locked it, with a glance of defiant terror over the safer shoulder first, and then over the one that was nearer the noise. Then she knew that she had done her duty very bravely; and that it would be a cruel thing to expect her to stay any longer. And, so to shut out all further views of anything she had no right to see, she slipped back the band of her beautiful hair, and, under that cover, retreated. CHAPTER X. A BOY AND A DONKEY. At this very time there happened to be a boy of no rank, and of unknown order, quietly jogging homeward. He differed but little from other boys; and seemed unworthy of consideration, unless one stopped to consider him. Because he was a boy by no means virtuous, or valiant, neither gifted by nature with any inborn way to be wonderful. Having nothing to help him much, he lived among the things that came around him, to his very utmost; and he never refused a bit to eat, because it might have been a better bit. And now and then, if he got the chance (without any more in the background than a distant view of detection), he had been imagined perhaps to lay hand upon a stray trifle that would lie about, and was due, but not paid, to his merits. Nobody knew where this boy came from, or whether he came at all indeed, or was only the produce of earth or sky, at some improper conjuncture. Nothing was certain about him; except that there he was; and he meant to stay; and people, for the most part, liked him. And many women would been glad to love him, in a protective way, but for the fright by all of them felt, by reason of the magistrates. These had settled it long ago, at every kind of session, that this boy (though so comparatively honest) must not be encouraged much. He had such a manner of looking about, after almost anything; and of making the most of those happy times when luck embraces art; above all, he had such exhaustive knowledge of apple-trees, and potato-buries, and cows that wanted milking, as well as of ticklish trout, and occasional little ducks that had lost their way--that after long-tried lenience, and allowance for such a neglected child, justice could no longer take a large and loving view of Bonny. Bonny held small heed of justice (even in the plural number) whenever he could help it. The nature of his birth and nurture had been such as to gift him with an outside view of everything. If people liked him, he liked them, and would be the last to steal from them; or at any rate would let them be the last for him to steal from. His inner meaning was so honest, that he almost always waited for some great wrong to be done to him, before he dreamed of making free with almost anybody s ducks. Widely as he was known, and often glanced at from a wrong point of view, even his lowest detractor could not give his etymology. Many attempted to hold that he might have been called, in some generative outburst, Bonnie, by a Scotchman of imagination. Others laughed this idea to scorn, and were sure that his right name was Boney, because of his living in spite of all terror of Bonyparty. But the true solution probably was (as with all analytic inquiries) the third,--that his right name was Bony, because his father, though now quite a shadowy being, must have, at some time or other, perhaps, gone about crying, Rags and Bones, oh! These little niceties of origin passed by Bonny as the idle wind. He was proud of his name, and it sounded well; and wherever he went, the ladies seemed to like him as an unknown quantity. Also (which mattered far more to him) the female servants took to him. And, with many of these, he had such a way, that it found him in victuals, perhaps twice in a week. Nevertheless, he was forced to work as hard as could be, this summer. The dragging weight of a hopeless war (as all, except the stout farmers, now were beginning to consider it) had been tightening, more and more, the strain upon the veins of trade, and the burden of the community. This good boy lived in the side of a hill, or of a cliff (as some might call it), white and beautiful to look at from a proper distance. Here he had one of those queer old holes, which puzzle the sagest antiquary, and set him in fiercest conflict with the even sager geologist. But in spite of them all, the hole was there; and in that hole lived Bonny. Without society, what is life? Our tenderest and truest affections were not given us for naught. The grandest of human desires is to have something or other to wallop; and fate (in small matters so hard upon Bonny) had known when to yield, and had granted him this; that is to say, a donkey. A donkey of such a clever kind, and so set up with reasoning powers and a fine heart of his own, that all his conclusions were almost right, until they were beaten out of him. His name was Jack, and his nature was of a level and sturdy order, resenting wrongs, accepting favours, with all the teeth of gratitude, and braying (as all clever asses do) at every change of weather. His personal appearance also was noble, striking, and romantic; and his face reminded all beholders of a well-coloured pipe-bowl upside down. For all his muzzle and nose were white, as snowy white as if he always wore a nosebag newly floured from the nearest windmill. But just below his eyes, and across the mace of his jaws, was a ring of brown, and above that not a speck of white, but deepening into cloudy blackness, throughout all his system. Then (like the crest of Hector) rose a menacing frontlet of thick hair, and warlike ears as long as horns, yet genially revolving; and body and legs, to complete the effect, conceived in the very best taste to match. These great virtues of the animal found their balance in small foibles. A narrow-minded, self-seeking vein, a too vindictive memory, an obstinacy more than asinine, no sense of honour, and a habit of treating too many questions with the teeth or heels. These had lowered him to his present rank; as may be shown hereafter. To any worked and troubled mind, escaping into the country, it would have been a treat to happen (round some corner suddenly, when the sun throws shadows long) upon Bonny and his jackass. In the ripe time of the evening, when the sun is at his kindest, and the earth most thankful, and the lines of every shadow now are well accustomed; when the air has summer hope of never feeling frost again; and every bush, and tump, and hillock quite knows how to stand and look; when the creases of yellow grass, and green grass, by the roadside, leave themselves for explanation, till the rain shall settle it; and the thick hedge in the calm air cannot rustle, unless it holds a rabbit or a hare at play,--when all these things, in their quiet way, guide the shadowy lines of evening, and the long lanes of farewell, what can soothe the spirit more than the view of a boy on a donkey? Bonny, therefore, was in keeping with the world around him (as he always contrived to be) when he came home on Jack, that evening from a long day s work at Shoreham. The lane was at its best almost, with all the wild flowers that love the chalk, mixed with those that hug the border where the chalk creams into loam. Among them Bonny whistled merrily, as his favourite custom was; to let the Pixies and the Fairies, ere he came under the gloom of the hill, understand that he was coming and nobody else to frighten them. Soothed with the beauty of the scene and the majesty of the sunset, Jack drew back his ears and listened drowsily to his master. Britannia rule the waves was then the anthem of the nation; and as she seemed to rule nothing else, though fighting very grandly, all patriotic Britons found main comfort in commanding water. The happiness of this boy and donkey was of that gleeful see-saw chancing, which is the heartiest of all. This has a snugness of its own, which nothing but poverty can afford, and luck rejoice to revel in. As a rich man hugs his shivers, when he has taken a sudden chill, and huddles in over a roaring fire, and boasts that he cannot warm himself, so a poor fellow may cuddle his home, and spread his legs as he pleases, for the sake of its very want of comfort, and the things it makes him think of; all to be hoped for by-and-by. And Bonny was so destitute, that he had all the world to hope for. He lived in a hole in the scarp of chalk, at the foot of the gully of Coombe Lorraine; and many of his delightful doings might have been seen from the lofty windows, if anyone ever had thought it worth while to slope a long telescope at him. But nobody cared to look at Bonny and scatter his lowly happiness--than which there is no more fugitive creature, and none more shy of inspection. Being of a light and dauntless nature, Bonny kept whistling and singing his way, over the grass and through the furze, and in and out the dappled leafage of the summer evening; while Jack, with his brightest blinkings, picked the parts of the track that suited him. The setting sun was in their eyes, and made them wink every now and then, and threw the shadow of long ears, and walking legs, and jogging heads, here and there and anywhere. Also a very fine lump of something might in the shadows be loosely taken to hang across Jack in his latter parts, coming after Bonny s legs, and choice things stowed in front of them. The meaning of this was that they had been making a very lucky long-shore day at the mouth of the river Adur; and on their way home had received some pleasing tribute to their many merits in the town of Steyning, and down the road. Jack had no panniers, for his master could not provide such luxuries; but he had what answered as well, or

right?--me

How many times the word 'right?--me' appears in the text?

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

chanced

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

spread

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

now.--poor

How many times the word 'now.--poor' appears in the text?

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

consent

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

without

How many times the word 'without' appears in the text?

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

increase

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

hoarse

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

artists

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

favour

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

body

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

familiarise

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

time

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

even

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

marriage

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

him?--who

How many times the word 'him?--who' appears in the text?

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

cool

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

were

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you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

thirteen

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

calculated

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

you understanding:--Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least." "I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen." "How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one." "What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance." "'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what." "I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again." "And cannot you call me 'George' now?" "Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse." Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy. Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back. "John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned. "John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes." "He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him." "My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--" "He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject." "Emma, my dear Emma--" "Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther." "Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind." "If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that." "Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'" The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world. Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did, she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as they had done? Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place. Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it. Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps. The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it. "It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion." He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity. In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. CHAPTER XVIII Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy." He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added, "Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin." He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering, "You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than _his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before." "You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her." Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox." The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise. "Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do you deserve?" "Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?" "I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day." "I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy." "You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before." "I hope so--for at that time I was a fool." "And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for." "Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!" She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved. Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational. Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing. The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future. Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet! Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin. High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty. In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed. They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window. "It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They are coming in, I hope." In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, "I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a

affectionate

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

house

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

prominently

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

raid

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

therefore

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

chairs

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

acknowledge

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

proud

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

extreme

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

myself

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

great

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

exporting

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

are

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

roving

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

frail

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

dear

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

far

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

different

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you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

tobacco

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

contest

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

you, Hugh." "Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely." "I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;--I will not go back to the Islands." "Give me your hand on that." "There is my hand. But, remember;--I had told you just as much before. I don't mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;--but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do." "You mean to be my wife?" "Certainly;--some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is,--what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?" "Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won't be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?" "There must be preliminaries, Hugh,--even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don't see my way yet." Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. "It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you'll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn't have come over at all;--I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you." "My own darling!" "When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her." "I'll take you!" said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps. "No you won't, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that,--that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;--and I must always remember that I met you there." After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh's right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock's wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams. [Illustration: "I must always remember that I met you there."] "And see all the glories that might have been your own," he said. "And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and shewing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune,--and an obedient, good girl." "And why didn't you?" "I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because,--because,--because--. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!" "And why didn't I speak to you?" "I don't know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn't a word for anybody?" "I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn't go." "You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones." "You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet." "Of course I pretended,--because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all." "Don't I know it all now?" "I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved any one so dearly,--and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;--did you?" "I did my best. It wasn't much, I dare say." "You did nothing, sir,--except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that." "Nora, I don't think you do understand." "I do;--perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand." "Why was it?" "Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn't dabble in the river with you. But it's all over now, and we'll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us when we come back." They were alone in the sitting-room for more than an hour, and Lady Rowley was patient up-stairs as mothers will be patient in such emergencies. Sophie and Lucy had gone out and left her; and there she remained telling herself, as the weary minutes went by, that as the thing was to be, it was well that the young people should be together. Hugh Stanbury could never be to her what Mr. Glascock would have been,--a son-in-law to sit and think about, and dream of, and be proud of,--whose existence as her son-in-law would in itself have been a happiness to her out in her banishment at the other side of the world; but nevertheless it was natural to her, as a soft-hearted loving mother with many daughters, that any son-in-law should be dear to her. Now that she had gradually brought herself round to believe in Nora's marriage, she was disposed to make the best of Hugh, to remember that he was certainly a clever man, that he was an honest fellow, and that she had heard of him as a good son and a kind brother, and that he had behaved well in reference to her Emily and Trevelyan. She was quite willing now that Hugh should be happy, and she sat there thinking that the time was very long, but still waiting patiently till she should be summoned. "You must let me go for mamma for a moment," Nora said. "I want you to see her and make yourself a good boy before her. If you are ever to be her son-in-law, you ought to be in her good graces." Hugh declared that he would do his best, and Nora fetched her mother. Stanbury found some difficulty in making himself a "good boy" in Lady Rowley's presence; and Lady Rowley herself, for some time, felt very strongly the awkwardness of the meeting. She had never formally recognised the young man as her daughter's accepted suitor, and was not yet justified in doing so by any permission from Sir Marmaduke; but, as the young people had been for the last hour or two alone together, with her connivance and sanction, it was indispensable that she should in some way signify her parental adherence to the arrangement. Nora began by talking about Emily, and Trevelyan's condition and mode of living were discussed. Then Lady Rowley said something about their coming journey, and Hugh, with a lucky blunder, spoke of Nora's intended return to Italy. "We don't know how that may be," said Lady Rowley. "Her papa still wishes her to go back with us." "Mamma, you know that that is impossible," said Nora. "Not impossible, my love." "But she will not go back," said Hugh. "Lady Rowley, you would not propose to separate us by such a distance as that?" "It is Sir Marmaduke that you must ask." "Mamma, mamma!" exclaimed Nora, rushing to her mother's side, "it is not papa that we must ask,--not now. We want you to be our friend. Don't we, Hugh? And, mamma, if you will really be our friend, of course, papa will come round." "My dear Nora!" "You know he will, mamma; and you know that you mean to be good and kind to us. Of course I can't go back to the Islands with you. How could I go so far and leave him behind? He might have half-a-dozen wives before I could get back to him--" "If you have not more trust in him than that--!" "Long engagements are awful bores," said Hugh, finding it to be necessary that he also should press forward his argument. "I can trust him as far as I can see him," said Nora, "and therefore I do not want to lose sight of him altogether." Lady Rowley of course gave way and embraced her accepted son-in-law. After all it might have been worse. He saw his way clearly, he said, to making six hundred a year, and did not at all doubt that before long he would do better than that. He proposed that they should be married some time in the autumn, but was willing to acknowledge that much must depend on the position of Trevelyan and his wife. He would hold himself ready at any moment, he said, to start to Italy, and would do all that could be done by a brother. Then Lady Rowley gave him her blessing, and kissed him again,--and Nora kissed him too, and hung upon him, and did not push him away at all when his arm crept round her waist. And that feeling came upon him which must surely be acknowledged by all engaged young men when they first find themselves encouraged by mammas in the taking of liberties which they have hitherto regarded as mysteries to be hidden, especially from maternal eyes,--that feeling of being a fine fat calf decked out with ribbons for a sacrifice. CHAPTER XCI. FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Another week went by and Sir Marmaduke had even yet not surrendered. He quite understood that Nora was not to go back to the Islands. And he had visited Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse at St. Diddulph's in order to secure a home for her there, if it might be possible. Mr. Outhouse did not refuse, but gave the permission in such a fashion as to make it almost equal to a refusal. "He was," he said, "much attached to his niece Nora, but he had heard that there was a love affair." Sir Marmaduke, of course, could not deny the love affair. There was certainly a love affair of which he did not personally approve, as the gentleman had no fixed income and as far as he could understand no fixed profession. "Such a love affair," thought Mr. Outhouse, "was a sort of thing that he didn't know how to manage at all. If Nora came to him, was the young man to visit at the house, or was he not?" Then Mrs. Outhouse said something as to the necessity of an anti-Stanbury pledge on Nora's part, and Sir Marmaduke found that that scheme must be abandoned. Mrs. Trevelyan had written from Florence more than once or twice, and in her last letter had said that she would prefer not to have Nora with her. She was at that time living in lodgings at Siena and had her boy there also. She saw her husband every other day; but nevertheless,--according to her statements,--her visits to Casalunga were made in opposition to his wishes. He had even expressed a desire that she should leave Siena and return to England. He had once gone so far as to say that if she would do so, he would follow her. But she clearly did not believe him, and in all her letters spoke of him as one whom she could not regard as being under the guidance of reason. She had taken her child with her once or twice to the house, and on the first occasion Trevelyan had made much of his son, had wept over him, and professed that in losing him he had lost his only treasure; but after that he had not noticed the boy, and latterly she had gone alone. She thought that perhaps her visits cheered him, breaking the intensity of his solitude; but he never expressed himself gratified by them, never asked her to remain at the house, never returned with her into Siena, and continually spoke of her return to England as a step which must be taken soon,--and the sooner the better. He intended to follow her, he said; and she explained very fully how manifest was his wish that she should go, by the temptation to do so which he thought that he held out by this promise. He had spoken, on every occasion of her presence with him, of Sir Marmaduke's attempt to prove him to be a madman; but declared that he was afraid of no one in England, and would face all the lawyers in Chancery Lane and all the doctors in Savile Row. Nevertheless, so said Mrs. Trevelyan, he would undoubtedly remain at Casalunga till after Sir Marmaduke should have sailed. He was not so mad but that he knew that no one else would be so keen to take steps against him as would Sir Marmaduke. As for his health, her account of him was very sad. "He seemed," she said, "to be withering away." His hand was mere skin and bone. His hair and beard so covered his thin long cheeks, that there was nothing left of his face but his bright, large, melancholy eyes. His legs had become so frail and weak that they would hardly bear his weight as he walked; and his clothes, though he had taken a fancy to throw aside all that he had brought with him from England, hung so loose about him that they seemed as though they would fall from him. Once she had ventured to send out to him from Siena a doctor to whom she had been recommended in Florence; but he had taken the visit in very bad part, had told the gentleman that he had no need for any medical services, and had been furious with her, because of her offence in having sent such a visitor. He had told her that if ever she ventured to take such a liberty again, he would demand the child back, and refuse her permission inside the gates of Casalunga. "Don't come, at any rate, till I send for you," Mrs. Trevelyan said in her last letter to her sister. "Your being here would do no good, and would, I think, make him feel that he was being watched. My hope is, at last, to get him to return with me. If you were here, I think this would be less likely. And then why should you be mixed up with such unutterable sadness and distress more than is essentially necessary? My health stands wonderfully well, though the heat here is very great. It is cooler at Casalunga than in the town,--of which I am glad for his sake. He perspires so profusely that it seems to me he cannot stand the waste much longer. I know he will not go to England as long as papa is there;--but I hope that he may be induced to do so by slow stages as soon as he knows that papa has gone. Mind you send me a newspaper, so that he may see it stated in print that papa has sailed." It followed as one consequence of these letters from Florence that Nora was debarred from the Italian scheme as a mode of passing her time till some house should be open for her reception. She had suggested to Hugh that she might go for a few weeks to Nuncombe Putney, but he had explained to her the nature of his mother's cottage, and had told her that there was no hole there in which she could lay her head. "There never was such a forlorn young woman," she said. "When papa goes I shall literally be without shelter." There had come a letter from Mrs. Glascock,--at least it was signed Caroline Glascock, though another name might have been used,--dated from Milan, saying that they were hurrying back to Naples even at that season of the year, because Lord Peterborough was dead. "And she is Lady Peterborough!" said Lady Rowley, unable to repress the expression of the old regrets. "Of course she is Lady Peterborough, mamma; what else should she be?--though she does not so sign herself." "We think," said the American peeress, "that we shall be at Monkhams before the end of August, and Charles says that you are to come just the same. There will be nobody else there, of course, because of Lord Peterborough's death." "I saw it in the paper," said Sir Marmaduke, "and quite forgot to mention it." That same evening there was a long family discussion about Nora's prospects. They were all together in the gloomy sitting-room at Gregg's Hotel, and Sir Marmaduke had not yielded. The ladies had begun to feel that it would be well not to press him to yield. Practically he had yielded. There was now no question of cursing and of so-called disinheritance. Nora was to remain in England, of course with the intention of being married to Hugh Stanbury; and the difficulty consisted in the need of an immediate home for her. It wanted now but twelve days to that on which the family were to sail from Southampton, and nothing had been settled. "If papa will allow me something ever so small, and will trust me, I will live alone in lodgings," said Nora. "It is the maddest thing I ever heard," said Sir Marmaduke. "Who would take care of you, Nora?" asked Lady Rowley. "And who would walk about with you?" said Lucy. "I don't see how it would be possible to live alone like that," said Sophie. "Nobody would take care of me, and nobody would walk about with me, and I could live alone very well," said Nora. "I don't see why a young woman is to be supposed to be so absolutely helpless as all that comes to. Of course it won't be very nice,--but it need not be for long." "Why not for long?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "Not for very long," said Nora. "It does not seem to me," said Sir Marmaduke, after a considerable pause, "that this gentleman himself is so particularly anxious for the match. I have heard no day named, and no rational proposition made." "Papa, that is unfair, most unfair,--and ungenerous." "Nora," said her mother, "do not speak in that way to your father." "Mamma, it is unfair. Papa accuses Mr. Stanbury of being,--being lukewarm and untrue,--of not being in earnest." "I would rather that he were not in earnest," said Sir Marmaduke. "Mr. Stanbury is ready at any time," continued Nora. "He would have the banns at once read, and marry me in three weeks,--if I would let him." "Good gracious, Nora!" exclaimed Lady Rowley. "But I have refused to name any day, or to make any arrangement, because I did not wish to do so before papa had given his consent. That is why things are in this way. If papa will but let me take a room till I can go to Monkhams, I will have everything arranged from there. You can trust Mr. Glascock for that, and you can trust her." "I suppose your papa will make you some allowance," said Lady Rowley. "She is entitled to nothing, as she has refused to go to her proper home," said Sir Marmaduke. The conversation, which had now become very disagreeable, was not allowed to go any further. And it was well that it should be interrupted. They all knew that Sir Marmaduke must be brought round by degrees, and that both Nora and Lady Rowley had gone as far as was prudent at present. But all trouble on this head was suddenly ended for this evening by the entrance of the waiter with a telegram. It was addressed to Lady Rowley, and she opened it with trembling hands,--as ladies always do open telegrams. It was from Emily Trevelyan. "Louis is much worse. Let somebody come to me. Hugh Stanbury would be the best." In a few minutes they were so much disturbed that no one quite knew what should be done at once. Lady Rowley began by declaring that she would go herself. Sir Marmaduke of course pointed out that this was impossible, and suggested that he would send a lawyer. Nora professed herself ready to start immediately on the journey, but was stopped by a proposition from her sister Lucy that in that case Hugh Stanbury would of course go with her. Lady Rowley asked whether Hugh would go, and Nora asserted that he would go immediately as a matter of course. She was sure he would go, let the people at the D. R. say what they might. According to her there was always somebody at the call of the editor of the D. R. to do the work of anybody else, when anybody else wanted to go away. Sir Marmaduke shook his head, and was very uneasy. He still thought that a lawyer would be best, feeling, no doubt, that if Stanbury's services were used on such an occasion, there must be an end of all opposition to the marriage. But before half-an-hour was over Stanbury was sent for. The boots of the hotel went off in a cab to the office of the D. R. with a note from Lady Rowley. "Dear Mr. Stanbury,--We have had a telegram from Emily, and want to see you, _at once_. Please come. We shall sit up and wait for you till you do come.--E. R." It was very distressing to them because, let the result be what it might, it was all but impossible that Mrs. Trevelyan should be with them before they had sailed, and it was quite out of the question that they should now postpone their journey. Were Stanbury to start by the morning train on the following day, he could not reach Siena till the afternoon of the fourth day; and let the result be what it might when he arrived there, it would be out of the question that Emily Trevelyan should come back quite at once, or that she should travel at the same speed. Of course they might hear again by telegram, and also by letter; but they could not see her, or have any hand in her plans. "If anything were to happen, she might have come with us," said Lady Rowley. "It is out of the question," said Sir Marmaduke gloomily. "I could not give up the places I have taken." "A few days more would have done it." "I don't suppose she would wish to go," said Nora. "Of course she would not take Louey there. Why should she? And then I don't suppose he is so ill as that." "There is no saying," said Sir Marmaduke. It was very evident that, whatever might be Sir Marmaduke's opinion, he had no strongly-developed wish for his son-in-law's recovery. They all sat up waiting for Hugh Stanbury till eleven, twelve, one, and two o'clock at night. The "boots" had returned, saying that Mr. Stanbury had not been at the office of the newspaper, but that, according to information received, he certainly would be there that night. No other address had been given to the man, and the note had therefore of necessity been left at the office. Sir Marmaduke became very fretful, and was evidently desirous of being liberated from his night watch. But he could not go himself, and shewed his impatience by endeavouring to send the others away. Lady Rowley replied for herself that she should certainly remain in her corner on the sofa all night, if it were necessary; and as she slept very soundly in her corner, her comfort was not much impaired. Nora was pertinacious in refusing to go to bed. "I should only go to my own room, papa, and remain there," she said. "Of course I must speak to him before he goes." Sophie and Lucy considered that they had as much right to sit up as Nora, and submitted to be called geese and idiots by their father. Sir Marmaduke had arisen with a snort from a short slumber, and had just sworn that he and everybody else should go to bed, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. The trusty boots had also remained up, and in two minutes Hugh Stanbury was in the room. He had to make his excuses before anything else could be said. When he reached the D. R. office between ten and eleven, it was absolutely incumbent on him to write a leading article before he left it. He had been in the reporter's gallery of the House all the evening, and he had come away laden with his article. "It was certainly better that we should remain up, than that the whole town should be disappointed," said Sir Marmaduke, with something of a sneer. "It is so very, very good of you to come," said Nora. "Indeed, it is," said Lady Rowley; "but we were quite sure you would come." Having kissed and blessed him as her son-in-law, Lady Rowley was now prepared to love him almost as well as though he had been Lord Peterborough. "Perhaps, Mr. Stanbury, we had better show you this telegram," said Sir Marmaduke, who had been standing with the scrap of paper in his hand since the ring of the bell had been heard. Hugh took the message and read it. "I do not know what should have made my daughter mention your name," continued Sir Marmaduke;--"but as she has done so, and as perhaps the unfortunate invalid himself may have alluded to you, we thought it best to send for you." "No doubt it was best, Sir Marmaduke." "We are so situated that I cannot go. It is absolutely necessary that we should leave town for Southampton on Friday week. The ship sails on Saturday." "I will go as a matter of course," said Hugh. "I will start at once,--at any time. To tell the truth, when I got Lady Rowley's note, I thought that it was to be so. Trevelyan and I were very intimate at one time, and it may be that he will receive me without displeasure." There was much to be discussed, and considerable difficulty in the discussion. This was enhanced, too, by the feeling in the minds of all of them that Hugh and Sir Marmaduke would not meet again,--probably for many years. Were they to part now on terms of close affection, or were they to part almost as strangers? Had Lucy and Sophie not persistently remained up, Nora would have faced the difficulty, and taken the bull by the horns, and asked her father to sanction her engagement in the presence of her lover. But she could not do it before so many persons, even though the persons were her own nearest relatives. And then there arose another embarrassment. Sir Marmaduke, who had taught himself to believe that Stanbury was so poor as hardly to have the price of a dinner in his pocket,--although, in fact, our friend Hugh was probably the richer man of the two,--said something about defraying the cost of the journey. "It is taken altogether on our behalf," said Sir Marmaduke. Hugh became red in the face, looked angry, and muttered a word or two about Trevelyan being the oldest friend he had in the world,--"even if there were nothing else." Sir Marmaduke felt ashamed of himself,--without cause, indeed, for the offer was natural,--said nothing further about it; but appeared to be more stiff and ungainly than ever. The Bradshaw was had out and consulted, and nearly half an hour was spent in poring over that wondrous volume. It is the fashion to abuse Bradshaw,--we speak now especially of Bradshaw the Continental,--because all the minutest details of the autumn tour, just as the tourist thinks that it may be made, cannot be made patent to him at once without close research amidst crowded figures. After much experience we make bold to say that Bradshaw knows more, and will divulge more in a quarter of an hour, of the properest mode of getting from any city in Europe to any other city more than fifty miles distant, than can be learned in that first city in a single morning with the aid of a courier, a carriage, a pair of horses, and all the temper that any ordinary tourist possesses. The Bradshaw was had out, and it was at last discovered that nothing could be gained in the journey from London to Siena by starting in the morning. Intending as he did to travel through without sleeping on the road, Stanbury could not do better than leave London by the night mail train, and this he determined to do. But when that was arranged, then came the nature of his commission. What was he to do? No commission could be given to him. A telegram

want

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