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AIRI-NLP

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NLP Research Group 9

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

work

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

ginger

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

timid

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

lighting

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

sells

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

fourteen

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

rule

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

classy

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

difficult

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

can

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

only

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

who

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

its

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

tho

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

yakuza

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

carved

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

weep

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

sheath

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

hard

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

"Arigato"...Very good. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) ..."Ah-So"... SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) "Ah-So!" You know what "Ah-So" means THE BRIDE "I See." SUSHI CHEF I see - Very good. THE BRIDE I already said "Domo", right? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-netie-wa." The Sushi Chef goes "Oooh" like he's just discovered the answer to a mystery. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) ..."Kon-nichi-wa"...repeat please. THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) "Kon-nichi-wa?" Saying with surprise and admiration; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most impressive...you say Japanese words, like you Japanese. The Bride smiles and lets loose with a girlish giggle. THE BRIDE Now you're making fun of me. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) No no no - serious business. Pronunciation - very good. You say "Arigato" ...like we say "Arigato." THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Well, thank you - I mean...arigato. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You should learn Japanese - very easy. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) No kidding, I heard it's kinda hard. Whenever the Sushi Chef doesn't either hear your or understand you, he yells the word; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! And everybody always speaks LOUDER and CLEARER immediately afterwards. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I always heard it was difficult. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Yes yes yes - most difficult. But you have Japanese tongue. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Maybe I was Japanese in another life. The Sushi Chef proclaims as if he should know; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Most definitely, most definitely Japanese in another life. He sets an order of colorful, raw fish in front of the young blonde woman, that not only looks good, it looks beautiful. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) How did you know tuna's my favorite? SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Tuna's my favorite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ah, thank you very much. He YELLS OFFSCREEN in Japanese agai. A little BALD JAPANESE MAN with a shitty attitude, comes out from the back room. He heads for the tall blonde asking in a grumbly voice in Japanese, "What she wants to drink?" THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to the bald man) I beg your pardon? The Sushi Chef pantomimes drinking. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) - Drink - THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Oh yes, a bottle of warm sake. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Ahhh sake, (he holds up his thumb) Very good. In Japanese he YELLS/ORDERS the warm sake, the little Bald Man disappears. The Bride takes a bite out of her fish. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) First time in Japan? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) A-huh. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What! THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Yes, this is my first time. As the chef slices the next portion with a large knife, he asks; SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) What brings you to Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I came to see a man. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Aaahh, you have friend live in Okinawa? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Not quite. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Not friend? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I've never met him. The Sushi Chef continues slicing..... SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) Who is he, may I ask? THE BRIDE Hattori Hanzo. There's a break in the Sushi Chef's slicing. After a beat, he brings a bloody finger INTO FRAME and sticks it in his mouth. The little Bald man appears with a bottle of warm sake, he pours one for The Bride, then disappears again. As The Bride sips the sake, she looks at the chef. As The Sushi Chef sucks his finger, he looks at The Bride. The Sushi Chef drops the voice he had been using up to that point...and IN JAPANESE SUBTITLED IN ENGLISH asks; SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) What do you want with Hattori Hanzo? The Bride answers in Japanese; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I need Japanese steel. SUSHI CHEF (JAPANESE) Why do you need Japanese steel? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) I have vermin to kill. SUSHI CHEF (ENGLISH) You must have big rats you need Hattori Hanzo steel. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Huge. INT. HATTORI HANZO'S ATTIC - DAY The trap door in the floor opens up, and HATTORI HANZO (Sushi Chef), climbs inside the room, followed by The Bride. The room has many handcrafted samurai swords in hand-carved wooden sheaths resting on wooden racks running the length of the second half of the attic. The Bride walks down the row of Japanese steel, looking and touching the shiny wood. She looks behind her to Hanzo who is still by the trap door, and says; THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) May I? The Sushi Chef answers in ENGLISH; HANZO (ENGLISH) Yes you may..... She starts reaching for one... HANZO (ENGLISH) ...try the second one down in the sixth row on your left. She finds it lying sleeping in its shiny, black sheath. Her hand lifts it from the rack. She UNSHEATHS the steel, partially....then with GREAT FLOURISH....completely. Hanzo's mouth froms a smile. HANZO (ENGLISH) Funny, you like samurai swords... He pulls a baseball out of his pocket. HANZO (ENGLISH) ...I like baseball. THEN SUDDENLY - HE THROWS THE BASEBALL HARD, right at The Bride's head.... QUICK AS A WHIP, SHE SLICES THE BALL IN HALF, IN MID AIR. The two perfectly cut baseball pieces, hit the floor. He gives her a slight nod, then crosses the attic towards her. HANZO (JAPANESE) I wanted to show you these.... However someone as you, who knows so much must surely know, I no longer make instruments of death. I keep these here for their ascetic and sentimental value. (he takes both sword and sheath from her...) Yet proud tho I am of my life's work... (...he closes them together) I am retired. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Then give me one of these. HANZO (ENGLISH) These are not for sale. THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) I didn't say, sell me. I said, give me. HANZO (ENGLISH) And why should I be obliged to assist you in the extermination of your vermin? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) Because my vermin, is a former student of yours. And considering the student, I'd say you had a rather large obligation. Hattori Hanzo goes to a dusty window, and writes the name, "BILL" on it with his finger. The blonde girl nods her head yes. The proud warrior moves over to the door in the floor, throwing it open. He points into a corner... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...You can sleep there... .....starts to descend.... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...it will take me a week to make the sword... .....before his head disappears, he says; HANZO (JAPANESE) ...I suggest you spend it practicing. ...he closes the door behind him. She smiles slightly...then moves over to the window, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes Bill's name off. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE APPEARS: "One week later" Under black we hear Hattori Hanzo's voice in Japanese and read the subtitles; HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I'm done doing what I swore an oath to God 28 years ago to never do again. I've created, "something that kills people." And in that purpose I was a success. FADE UP ON CU HATTORI HANZO HANZO (JAPANESE) I've done this, because philosophically I'm sympathetic to your aim. EX CU The HANZO SWORD TRACKING EX CU of the Hanzo sword in its shiny, black wood sheath. At the base of the sheath, by the handle, he's carved the face of a lioness... HANZO (V.O.; JAPANESE) I can tell you with no ego, this is my finest sword. If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut. CU HANZO. HANZO (JAPANESE) Revenge is never a straight line. It's a forest. And like a forest it's easy to lose your way...to get lost... to forget where you came in. To serve as a compass, a combat philosophy must be adopted that can be found in the secret doctrine of the Yagu Ninja. And now my yellow haired warrior, repeat after me; We go back and forth between CU of HANZO reciting the doctrine like a samurai drill instructor and the Bride repeating it. HANZO (JAPANESE) "When engaged in combat, the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior's only concern... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...This is the first and cardinal rule of combat... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Suppress all human emotion and compassion... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) ...Kill whoever stands in thy way, even if that be Lord God, or Buddha himself... The Bride repeats this... HANZO (JAPANESE) This truth lies at the heart of the art of combat. Once it is mastered... Thou shall fear no one... Though the devil himself may bar thy way... The Bride repeats this... Her eyes look at the greatest maker of swords on this earth and says; THE BRIDE Domo. EX CU The Hanzo Sword, her white hand with her long fingers COMES INTO FRAME and removes the beautiful, artful instrument of vengeance. FADE TO BLACK. OVER BLACK TITLE CARD: Chapter Four SHOWDOWN at HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES CUT TO: A BLANK PIECE OF DRAWING PAPER A hand comes in and, as the Bride talks over this image, draws with a piece of charcoal, a portrait of the geisha regaled O-REN ISHII. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When fortune smiles on something as violent and ugly as revenge, at the time it seems proof like no other, that not only does God exist, you're doing his will. At a time when I knew the last about my enemies, the first name on my death list, was the easiest to find. But of course, when one manages the difficult task of becoming queen of the Tokyo underworld, one doesn't keep it a secret, does one? The charcoal drawing gets color and becomes ANIMATED, turning into a JAPAMATION O-REN... JAPANESE ANIMATION SEQUENCE We see Japamation-style images of The Bride's verbiage. THE BRIDE (V.O.) At the age of twenty, Bill backed his Nippon progeny financially and philosophically in her Shakespearian-in-magnitude power struggle with the other Yakuza clans, over who would rule vice in the city of Tokyo. Japamation images of O-Ren and her Army, taking on ANOTHER YAKUZA ARMY, among falling cherry blossoms. WE CUT BACK AND FORTH between cartoon images of this and the real life real McCoy samurai sword battle. O-Ren's ability is simply amazing. THE BRIDE (V.O.) When it was all over, it was the geisha-regaled O-Ren Ishii that proved the victor. INT. JAPANESE NIGHT CLUB O-Ren has just become the official leader of crime in the city of Tokyo. The six Yakuza clan bosses, each with TWO BODYGUARDS standing behind them, toast their new leader, with much laughter and drinking...all except one...BOSS TANAKA. THE BRIDE (V.O.) And just in case you're wondering how could a half breed Japanese Chinese American become the boss of all criminal activity in Tokyo, Japan,... I'll tell you. The subject of O-Ren's blood and nationality came up before the council only once. The night O-Ren assumed power over the crime council. Boss Tanaka is the picture of angered ambiance among the alcohol-fueled frivolity. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The man who seems bound and determined to break the mood is Boss Tanaka. And what Boss Tanaka thinks is... Boss Tanaka brings his fist down on the table, smashing the plate in front of him into itty bitty pieces. The party comes to a halt as all eyes go to the leader of the Tanaka Crime Family. CRIME FAMILY LEADER #2 (JAPANESE) Tanaka? What's the meaning of this outburst? This is a time for celebration. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) And what exactly should I be celebrating? The perversion of our illustrious council? The Bosses all react with shock and outrage...O-Ren remains cool. She raises her voice for the first word, but lowers it for the rest of the sentence. O-REN (JAPANESE) Gentlemen...Boss Tanaka obviously has something on his mind. Allow him to express it. BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) My father... (looking at a clan head) ...along with yours and... (looking at another) ...along With yours, started this council. And while you drink like fish and laugh like donkeys, they weep in the afterlife over the perversion committed today. The BOSSES react again...O-Ren; O-REN (JAPANESE) Silence! (then composed) Of what perversion do you speak, Tanaka? Boss Tanaka looks at the female half-breed American and says; BOSS TANAKA (JAPANESE) I speak, Mistress Ishii,....of the perversion done to this council, which I love more than my own children,...by making a half Chinese American its leader. Then... Faster than you can say Jimminy Cricket,... O-Ren's samurai sword is unsheathed... Boss Tanaka's head is liberated from its body... The head hits the floor... And from the spot between its shoulder blades, a geyser of blood shoots up in the air. The BOSSES who were shocked at Tanaka's words are even more flabbergasted at O-Ren's resonse. The two bodyguard's, standing behind Boss Tanaka, hands go to their swords and draw them. O-Ren turns her blade in their direction. The Bosses and their bodyguards say nothing,...only watch. The lady looks across at the two men and says in and authoritative voice; O-REN (JAPANESE) Fight me or work for me. They look at her for a moment, then they lower their swords. O-REN (JAPANESE) Drop them on the ground. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get behind me. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Get on your knees. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Put your foreheads on the floor. They do. O-REN (JAPANESE) Keep your mouths shut. You better believe they do. The mistress' eyes got to the other bosses looking at her. As she speaks English, bodyguard translators translate for their bosses. O-REN I'm going to say this in English so you know how serious I am. As your leader, I encourage you to -- from time to time and always in a respectful manner, and with the complete knowledge that my decision is final -- to question my logic. If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so. But allow me to convince you. And I will promise you, right here and now, no subject will be taboo...except the subject that was just under discussion. O-REN (JAPANESE) (to a bodyguard) Hand me that head. He picks it off the floor and meekly offers it to the Queen. She takes it by the hair and holds it up as she speaks. O-REN (ENGLISH) The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or my American heritage as a negative is, I collect your fuckin head. (now completely American) Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sonsabitches got anything else to say, now's the fuckin time. Nobody says anything. O-REN (ENGLISH) I didn't think so. (pause) Meeting adjourned. EXT. THE HOUSE OF BLUE LEAVES - JAPANESE RESTAURANT The entire O-Ren Ishii crew moves through the restaurant. The CUSTOMERS all look up now as the crew passes. The restaurant staff acts as if the Shogun himself has just showed up on their doorstep demanding a meal. No doubt if the meal is not satisfactory the staff will gladly slice off a finger. The door to a private dining room is slid open, the crew steps inside, the door is slid shut. INT. PRIVATE DINING AREA (RESTAURANT) - NIGHT The private dining area of the Japanese restaurant. The patrons are surrounded by white paper walls. The CAMERA CIRCLES around O-REN ISHII. Sitting in between her, two personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters, YUKI AND GO GO. The Yubari sisters are younger than O-Ren; Yuki is sixteen and Go Go is seventeen. Both girls are dressed in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms complete with plaid skirts and matching blazers. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL (The BRIDE's) On her right is her French and Japanese lawyer, SOFIE FATALE. FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EYEBALL The bunch of mop-topped young men, who all wear black suits, white shirts, thin black ties and Kato masks over their eyes, are her soldiers, "The CRAZY 88." FLASH ON EX CU OF AN EAR, The Bride's fingers come into FRAME and move blonde hair out of the sensory appendage's way. And finally there's a tall dark American in a black suit sans Kato mask -- that's O-Ren's head of security, MR. BARREL. They're all drinking and having a good time as Sofie tells a joke in Japanese. THE BRIDE (V.O.) The mop tops in black suits and Kato masks were O-Ren's soldiers, "The Crazy 88." The two young girls in the schoolgirl uniforms are her personal bodyguards, the Yubari sisters. Yuki, aged sixteen, and Go Go, aged seventeen. The pretty lady who's dressed like she's a villain on Star Trek is O-Ren's best friend and her lawyer, Sofie Fatale. And finally, the American in the black suit but sans Kato mask, O-Ren's head of security, Mr. Barrel. SUDDENLY O-Ren hears something. Like a deer in the forest, her head springs up on alert. It's almost as if she's listening to The Bride's narration. The Bride's NARRATION SUDDENLY STOPS IN MIDSENTENCE -- O-Ren removes a SMALL DAGGER-DART from the folds of her robe and THROWS IT in the direction of the sound. CU The BRIDE dressed in a kimono on the other side of the private dining room's paper wall. The DART FLIES THROUGH The PAPER, STREAKS BY HER FACE, almost taking off the tip of her nose in the process. INSERT: DART EMBEDS ITSELF IN A WOOD POST. O-Ren's action instantly brings the room's frivolity to a halt. Mistress Ishii silently orders Go Go and Yuki to retrieve the eavesdropper. INT. JAPANESE RESTAURANT - NIGHT The white paper door to O-Ren's dining room SLAMS OPEN. Yuki and Go Go step into the corridor. All trace of the Bride has vanished. They look out over the restaurant, patrons look normal. Whoever was there is gone now. Go Go removes the small dagger from the wood post and the Yubari sisters go back into the private dining room, SLAMMING the door behind them. ONE SHOT CU The BRIDE at the bar, in her kimono, drinking a colorful cocktail. She observes all the activity by O-Ren's private dining room. When the Yubari sisters go back inside, the Bride climbs off her barstool and goes through the restaurant...into the parking area...and up to her rental car. She opens the door. Takes off her Japanese kimono, underneath is a one-piece yellow track suit with a black stripe going down both sides, like the one Bruce Lee wears in "Game of Death." She tosses the kimono in the trunk, then removes the sheathed Hanzo sword. With the sword of vengeance in her hand, we follow her back inside the restaurant. She looks upstairs to the O-Ren dining room. We see Yuki Yubari and Sofie Fatale, slide open the door, and walk down the stairs together. When they get to the bottom, they give each other a kiss goodbye, and Yuki leaves the restaurant, while Sofie makes her way to the bathroom...only to have The Bride, now dressed in her Bruce Lee yellow outfit and samurai sword in her hand, bar her way. END OF SHOT BACK AND FORTH between CU's of the two women, face to face. SOFIE (JAPANESE) (to Bride) Can I help you? THE BRIDE (JAPANESE) Yes, I am looking for the attorney of O-Ren Ishii, Sofie Fatale. Would that be you? SOFIE (JAPANESE) I'm Mistress Ishii's attorney. How can I help you? The Bride PUNCHES her in the face. INT. O-REN'S PRIVATE ROOM Aside from drinking like fishes, what is the queen of the Tokyo underworld - Mistress O-Ren Ishii - and her private army doing when we cut back? Singing karaoke, of course. It's Crazy 88 MIKI's turn at the mike and he's having a whale of a good time singing Dionne Warwick's "Walk On By," in Japanese.... WHEN... A COMMOTION is heard being made by the restaurant staff and the other patrons, from the other side of the white paper wall...Just as they all start to notice it, they hear; THE BRIDE (O.S., JAPANESE) O-Ren Ishii! You and I have unfinished business! The Crazy 88 spring to their feet. One slides open the door. They see O-Ren's lawyer, Sofie Fatale, standing in the middle of the restaurant, her left arm completely outstretched, hand gripped around a post. She has a terrified look on her face. Before anybody on O-Ren's side of the room can say anything ...The Bride steps out from behind Sofie. O-REN'S reaction shows how effective the element of surprise turned out to be. She says The Bride's name softly to herself; it's BLEEPED OUT. The Bride The VENGEANCE THEME BURSTS ON THE SOUNDTRACK...The Vein on her forehead begins to pulsate. WE DO A QUICK SHAW BROTHERS ZOOM INTO HER EYES. A SPAGHETTI-WESTERN FLASHBACK of O-Ren beating the shit outta her at the wedding chapel IS SUPERIMPOSED OVER HER EYES. The FLASHBACK DISSOLVES, we ZOOM BACK INTO A CU, the vein stops pulsating, and the theme STOPS PLAYING OVER THE SOUNDTRACK, LEAVING A CLEAN, COLORFUL CU of The Bride loaded for bear. She raises her Hanzo sword, and Slices off Sofie's Arm at the Shoulder with one stroke. SOFIE Spewing and Gushing Blood from her stump, twists her body in agony, painting the floor and the walls with giant Splashes of Red, as her body hits the floor, twitching in both surprise and shock. The CRAZY 88 run out into the dining area and create a human wall between themselves and their Mistress. MR. BARREL AND GO GO take positions on either side of O-Ren. O-REN seated in a shogun's seat, rises furiously to her feet. O-REN (JAPANESE) You bastard! The Bride does a swipe in the air with her sword; Sofie's blood flies off the blade. The entire floor of the dining room lies between the two warring parties. The Bride vs. The Crazy 88 The restaurant's STAFF and PATRONS sit or stand rigidly in fear. O-Ren says loudly to the room; O-REN (JAPANESE) Sorry everybody, but I'm afraid we're going to have to close the place. There's some private business that we must attend to now. The Staff and The Customers Stampede the exits. The Bride, The Crazy 88, and O-Ren hold their ground without moving a muscle, till the dining room, as well as the entire restaurant known as "The House of Blue Leaves," is deserted of every human not engaged in the face- off that precedes combat. O-Ren gives a simple order; O-REN Miki. MIKI, one of The Crazy 88 (The little one), steps forward, unsheaths his sword, and yells at the yellow clad blonde. MIKI (JAPANESE) You had it coming bastard! Raising his samurai sword high, he Charges, Screaming A Banzai Scream... The Bride turns to face him. Miki Charging and Screaming... The Bride slowly raises the Hanzo Sword into Striking Position. Miki Charging and Screaming, almost on top of her. The Bride, sword in position, waits for her opponent to arrive. Miki arrives at his destination, he Swings... The Bride Swings... The Hanzo Sword Slices Miki's inferior blade in half. Miki looks down at the impotent weapon in his hand. The Bride Thrusts her sword through Miki's abdomen, then Lifts the little guy off the ground straight up in the air. Miki screaming, Impaled on her blade like a fish at the end of a spear. Held up in the air, restaurant light fixtures in the B.G. O-Ren and her crew watch stunned. The Bride Drops the shishkabobbed Miki into the koi pond that starts outside the restaurant and ends inside, with a huge blue splash. Koi pond - Blue water - Orange and yellow fish - Red blood - Dead man. The BRIDE looks up from the pond, across the length of the floor, into the eyes of O-Ren Ishii. She takes one step forward, hears the slightest noise, Twirls the samurai sword in the air once, drops to one knee, and thrusts the sword into the beige-colored carpet- covered floor. The sword sticks in the floor half way... The Sound of human death rises from underneath the floor... OVERHEAD SHOT Looking down on The Bride at one end and O-Ren and her crew at the other. A Red Circle appears where the blade is buried in the floor...The red circle grows larger...and larger...and larger...and larger still... Leaving the sword stuck in the floor, handle sticking straight up in the air, The Bride rises up from her one knee, and straight and tall, staring down the queen of the Tokyo underworld. O-Ren her eyes narrow with rage. She screams out another order; O-REN (JAPANESE) Tear the bitch apart! The six remaining Crazy 88 unsheath their swords at the same time with a GREAT SOUND EFFECT. They circle the Bride. The BRIDE Inside the circle of Combatants who surrounded her. She Whips the sword out of the floor and raises her blade diagonally in front of her. Her eyes are reflected in the shiny steel. Holding her sword in the diagonal position, The Bride can see reflected in the shiny blade, whoever stands behind her. The six Crazy 88 Attack... The BRIDE does a Zatoichi-like SWISH-SLASH-SWISH with her steel blade. Four boys die an immediate samurai blade-inflicted death, SCREAMING GRUNT, TWITCHING BODY, FROZEN IN THE STANCE IT WAS SLASHED IN, RED BLOOD SQUIRTING FROM WOUNDS, THEN A CRASHING COLLAPSE TO THE FLOOR. The last two put up more of a fight...but then one of them is SLASHED and FALLS and the last one is SLASHED AND CRASHES THROUGH the restaurant's big picture window. EX CU The EYES of The Bride, pointed down at the bodies by her feet, ...BEAT ...they Look back up at O-Ren. O-REN standing in between Go Go and Mr. Barrel. Her eyes narrow. The BRIDE swipes the air with her sword, the blood of the dead attackers flies off. GO GO and MR. BARREL unsheath their swords. WHEN... We hear a LOUD SOUND of many ENGINES behind the Bride. Then behind her, through the broken pictures window we see seventeen motorcycles pull up to the parking lot. All the riders wear black suits with kato masks, and all carry samurai swords. The BRIDE looks from the reinforcements to O-Ren. O-REN smiles. O -REN (ENGLISH) (to the Bride) You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? THE BRIDE (ENGLISH) (to O-Ren) You know, for a second there, yeah I did. O-Ren smiles... O-REN (ENGLISH) Silly rabbit... Both O-Ren and the Bride finish the phrase together,... O-REN/THE BRIDE ...Trix Are for kids. This is something they used to say back when they fought alongside of each other as "Vipers." The seventeen Crazy 88 reinforcements come running into the restaurant and with drawn swords surround The Bride. As a HEAVY METAL COMBAT BEAT begins to PULSATE ON THE SOUNDTRACK, The Boys and The Bride have a Spaghetti Western Stand-off. We do a 360 INSIDE the CIRCLE of The Crazy 88, who surround the yellow-haired warrior. Not all have Samurai swords; one JUGGLES TWO HATCHETS, another TWIRLS A THREE-STAFF TRIPLE IRON over his head. As the Heavy Metal music builds...We Cut to various Shots of The Two Opposing Forces Preparing to Strike....Hands on Sword Handles...Feet finding Combat Stance...etc... ....Until Heavy Metal reaches its Breaking Point... ...At that point, the Metal EXPLODES OVER THE SOUNDTRACK...IN TIME WITH The BRIDE EXPLODING INTO A VIOLENT KILLING MACHINE ON SCREEN. As she matches skill with the army of black-suited boys, arms flailing, silver blade Clashing and Slashing, long blonde hair whipping like a whirling dervish.... ...She's a Goddess of War Venus. Not only is the FIGHT CUT TO THE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, but The Bride seems to be somewhat dancing to it as she fights. This explosion of furious violence is punctuated CINEMATICALLY BY THE COLOR IN THE FILM POPPING OFF, and the fight being filmed in HIGH CONTRAST BLACK AND WHITE, turning the squirting, spewing geysers of BLOOD FROM CRIMSON RED TO OIL BLACK. Many members of The Crazy 88 are Sliced, Slashed, and liberated from the limbs they were born with at The Bride's blade. Some SPECIFIC MOMENTS While Clashing swords, The Bride whips the silver Boomerang out of its holster, and Throws it... ....It Twirls Through the Air... ...Embedding itself longways in one of the boy's faces. The Bride does a Mid-Air Somersault over the head of an Attacker, landing solid on her feet behind him...Slash, he's Out. The Bride is knocked to the floor, her Attacker stands over her to Spear the young blonde, Her Legs Spring Up In The Air, Ankles Lock Around The Boy's Neck. She throws him down to the ground. With his neck still in the vise-like grip of her ankles, She removes The SOG Knife from its sheath and Plunges it Deep Into The Boy's Chest. While still on the ground, an Attacker Charges at her. Yanking the Boomerang out of the Dead Boy's Face, She Sends It Flying in the Charging Man's path... ...Boomerang Twirling Through the Air Close to the Ground... ...Chopping Off the Charging Attacker's Foot in Mid Step, he falls flat. The Bride jumps up onto an attacker's shoulders. She locks her legs around him so he's helpless at shaking her off. ...she swings down with her sword, and cuts the man's hands off. So while the helpless man with no hands screams, the now nine foot tall Bride fights with the others. When she's through she brings the blade across the man she's perched on's throat. He falls to his knees, bringing the Bride back to the floor like an alevator. As soon as her soles touch ground, she's off his shoulders, somersaulting on the floor, bringing her blade up between an attacker's legs into his groin. He lets out a scream, as she yanks her blade free. ONE ATTACKER steps out from the rest, "The Best One." He Twirls his sword expertly, challenging the young woman to, "Come get a piece." The Bride does a screaming charge towards him.... ...Sword raised, The Attacker stands his ground, calm - steady, waiting for the blonde-haired locomotive to collide.....They meet..... SWING - CLASH - DANCE - SEPARATE - SWING - CLASH - SPIN - CLASH - LOCK - TWIRL - SEPARATE - They match each other blow for blow, till one makes a mistake. It's the male. The Bride's swing, that's neither clashed

fortune

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

deal

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

fresh

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

charges

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

hath

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

spider

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

way

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

objection

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

privily

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

whatever

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

any

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

look

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

days

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

papers

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

from

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

appeared

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

tensing

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

itself

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

command

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

survivors

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

"Black death, and the plague, and the murrain of Egypt hath come in through Cripps the Carrier! How much will he charge Beckley, your Worship? How much shall Beckley pay him, when she mourneth for her children? when she spreadeth forth her hands and seeketh north and south, and cannot find them, because they are not?" "What is it, good woman?" cried Smith, impatiently, "what is all this uproar? do tell us, and have done with it?" "Good man," replied Widow Hookham tartly, "my words are addressed to your betters, sir. Your Worship knoweth well that Master Kale hath leave and license for his Sunday dinner; ever since his poor wife died, he sitteth with a knife and fork to the right side of our cook-maid. He were that genteel, I do assure you, although his appearance bespeaketh it not, and city gents may look down on him; he had such a sense of propriety, not a word did he say all the time of dinner to raise an objection to the weakest stomach. But as soon as he see that all were done, and the parlour dinner forward, he layeth his finger on his lips, and looketh to me as the prime authority; and when I ask him to speak out, no secrets being among good friends, what he said were a deal too much for me, or any other Christian person." "Well, well, ma'am, if your own dinner was respected, you might have showed some respect for ours," Mr. Smith exclaimed very sadly, beholding the gravy in the channelled dish margined with grease, and the noble sirloin weeping with lost opportunity. But Mr. Oglander took no notice. To such things he was indifferent now. "To keep the mind dwelling upon earthly victuals," the widow replied severely, "on the Lord's Day, and with the Day of the Lord a-hanging special over us--such things is beyond me to deal with, and calls for Mr. Warbelow. Carrier Cripps hath sent his sister over to nurse Squire Overshute!" John Smith pretended to be busy with his beef, but Mary, who made a point of watching whatever he did (without well knowing why), startled as she was by her mother's words, this girl had her quick eyes upon his face, and was sure that it lost colour, as the carved sirloin of beef had done from the trickling of the gravy. "Overshute! nurse Mr. Overshute?" cried the Squire with great astonishment. "Why, what ails Mr. Overshute? It is a long time since I have seen him, and I thought that he had perhaps forgotten me. He used to come very often, when--but who am I to tempt him? When my darling was here, in the time of my darling, everybody came to visit me; now nobody comes, and of course it is right. There is nobody for them to look at now, and no one to make them laugh a little. Ah, she used to make them laugh, till I was quite jealous, I do believe; not of myself, bless your heart! but of her, because I never liked her to have too much to say to anybody, unless it was one who could understand her. And nobody ever turned up that was able, in any way, to understand her, except her poor old father, sir." The Squire, at the end of this long speech (which had been a great deal too much for him) stood up, and flourished his fork, which should have been better employed in feeding him, and looked from face to face, in fear that he had made himself ridiculous. Nobody laughed at him, or even smiled; and he was pleased with this, and resolved never to give such occasion again; because it would have shamed him so. And after all it was his own business. None of these people could have any idea, and he hoped they never might have. By this time his mind was dropping softly into some confusion, and feeling it so, he sat down again, and drank the glass of wine which Mary Hookham kindly held for him. For a few minutes Mr. John Smith had his flourish (to let both the women be sure who he was) all about the Queen, and the law of the land, and the jurisdiction of the Bench, and he threatened the absent Cripps with three months' imprisonment, and perhaps the treadmill. He knew that he was talking unswept rubbish, but his audience was female. They listened to him without leaving off their work; and their courage increased as his did. But presently Mr. Oglander, who had seemed to be taking a nap, arose, and said, as clearly as ever he had said anything in his clearest days-- "Mary, go and tell Charles to put the saddle on the mare at once." "Oh Lor', sir! whatever are you thinking of? Lor' a massy, sir, I couldn't do it, I couldn't! You ain't abeen a-horseback for nigh four months, and your orders is to keep quiet in your chair, and not even look out o' winder, sir. Do 'ee plaize to go into your slippers, sir?" "I will not go into my slippers, Mary. I will go into my boots. I hear that Mr. Overshute is ill, and I gather from what you have all been saying that his illness is of such a kind that nobody will go near him. I have wronged the young gentleman bitterly, and I will do my best to right myself. If I never do another thing, I will ride to Shotover this day. Order the mare, as I tell you, and the air will do me good, please God!" CHAPTER XXIX. A SPIDER'S DINNER-PARTY. Now was the happy time when Oxford, ever old, yet ever fresh with the gay triennial crown of youth, was preparing itself for that sweet leisure for which it is seldom ill prepared. Being the paramount castle and strongest feudal hold of stout "idlesse," this fair city has not much to do to get itself into prime condition for the noblest efforts and most arduous feats of invincible laziness. The first and most essential step is to summon all her students, and send them to chapel to pay their vows. After this there need be no misgiving or fear of industry. With one accord they issue forth, all pledged to do nothing for the day, week, or month; each intellectual brow is stamped with the strongest resolve not to open a book; and "Games are the spur which the clear spirit doth raise, To scorn the Dons, and live luxurious days." This being so, whether winter shatters the Isid wave against Folly bridge, or spring's arrival rustles in the wavering leaves of Magdalen, or autumn strews the chastened fragrance of many brewers on ripe air--how much more when beauteous summer fosters the coy down on the lip of the junior sophist like thistle-seed, and casts the freshman's shadow hotly on the flags of High Street--now or never is the proper period not to overwork one's self, and the hour for taking it easy. But against each sacred rite and hallowed custom of the place, against each good old-fashioned smoothness, and fine-fed sequacity, a rapid stir was now arising, and a strong desire to give a shove. There were some few people who really thought that the little world in which they lay was one they ought to move in; that perfect life was not to be had without some attempt at breathing; and that a fire (though beautifully laid) gives little warmth till kindled. However, these were young fellows mostly, clever in their way, but not quite sound; and the heads of houses, generally speaking, abode on the house-top, and did not come down. Still they kept their sagacious eyes on the movement gathering down below, and made up their minds to crush it as soon as they could be quite certain of being too late. But these things ride not upon the cart of Cripps--though Cripps is a theologian, when you beat his charges down. After the Easter vacation was over, with too few fattening festivals, the most popular tutor in Brasenose (being the only one who ever tried to teach) came back to his rooms and his college work with a very fine appetite for doing good;--according, at least, to his own ideas of good, and duty, and usefulness; all of which were fundamentally wrong in the opinion of the other tutors. But Hardenow, while he avoided carefully all disputes with his colleagues, strictly kept to his own course, and doing more work than the other five (all put together) attempted, was permitted to have his own way, because of the trouble there might be in stopping him. The college met for the idle term, on Saturday morning, as usual. On Saturday afternoon Hardenow led off his old "squad" with two new recruits, for their fifteen miles of hard walking. Athletics and training were as yet unknown (except with the "eight" for Henley), and this Tractarian movement may have earned its name, ere the birth of No. 90, from the tract of road traversed, in a toe-and-heel track, by the fine young fellows who were up to it. At any rate that was what the country people said, and these are more often right than wrong, and the same opinion still abides with them. Hardenow only took this long tramp for the sake of collecting his forces. Saturday was not their proper day for this very admirable coat-tail chase. Neither did they swallow hill and plain in this manner on a Sunday. Lectures were needful to fetch them up to the proper pitch for striding so. Wherefore on the morrow Mr. Hardenow was free for a cruise on his own account, after morning sermon at St. Mary's; and not having heard of his old friend Russel for several weeks, he resolved to go and hunt him up in his own home. It was not a possible thing for this very active and spare-bodied man to lounge upon his road. Whatever it was that he undertook, he carried on the action with such a swing and emphasis, that he seemed to be doing nothing else. He wore a short spencer, and a long-tailed coat, "typical"--to use the pet word of that age--both of his curt brevity and his ankle-reaching gravity. His jacket stuck into him, and his coat struck away with the power of an adverse wind, while the boys turned back and stared at him; but he was so accustomed to that sort of thing that he never thought of looking round. He might have been tail-piped for seven leagues without troubling his head about it. This was a man of great power of mind, and led up to a lofty standard; pure, unselfish, good, and grand (so far as any grandeur can be in the human compound), watchful over himself at almost every corner of his ways, kind of heart, and fond of children; loving all simplicity, quick to catch and glance the meaning of minds very different from his own; subtle also, and deep to reason, but never much inclined to argue. He had a shy and very peculiar manner of turning his eyes away from even an undergraduate, when his words did not command assent; as sometimes happened with freshmen full of conceit from some great public school. The manner of his mind was never to assert itself, or enter into controversy. He felt that no arguments would stir himself when he had solidly cast his thoughts; and he had of all courtesies the rarest (at any rate with Englishmen), the courtesy of hoping that another could reason as well as himself. In this honest and strenuous nature there was one deficiency. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow, copious of mind and active, clear of memory, and keen at every knot of scholarship, patient and candid too, and not at all intolerant, yet never could reach the highest rank, through want of native humour. His view of things was nearly always anxious and earnest. His standing-point was so fixed and stable, that every subject might be said to revolve on its own axis during its revolution round him; and the side that never presented itself was the ludicrous or lightsome one. As he strode up the hill, with the back of his leg-line concave at the calf, instead of convex (whenever his fluttering skirt allowed a glimpse of what he never thought about), it was brought home suddenly to his ranging mind that he might be within view of Beckley. At a bend of the rising road he turned, and endwise down a plait of hills, and between soft pillowy folds of trees, the simple old church of Beckley stood, for his thoughts to make the most of it. And, to guide them, the chime of the gentle bells, foretelling of the service at three o'clock, came on the tremulous conveyance of the wind, murmuring the burden he knew so well--"old men and ancient dames, married folk and children, bachelors and maidens, all come to church!" Hardenow thought of the months he had spent, some few years back, in that quiet place; of the long, laborious, lonesome days, the solid hours divided well, the space allotted for each hard drill; then (when the pages grew dim and dark, and the bat flitted over the lattice, or the white owl sailed to the rickyard), the glory of sallying into the air, inhaling grander volumes than ever from mortal breath proceeded, and plunging into leaves that speak of one great Author only. And well he remembered in all that toil the pure delight of the Sunday; the precious balm of kicking out both legs, and turning on the pillow until eight o'clock; the leisurely breakfast with the Saturday papers, instead of Aristotle; the instructive and amusing walk to church, where everybody admired him, and he set the fashion for at least ten years; the dread of the parson that a man who was known as the best of his year at Oxford should pick out the fallacies of his old logic; and then the culminating triumph of Sabbatic jubilee--the dinner, the dinner, wherewith the whole week had been privily gestating; up to that crowning moment when Cripps, in a coat of no mean broadcloth, entered with a dish of Crippsic size, with the "trimmings" coming after him in a tray, and lifting the cover with a pant and flourish, said, "Well, sir, now, what do 'ee plaize to think of that?" Nor in this pleasant retrospect of kindness and simplicity was the element of rustic grace and beauty wholly absent--the slight young figure that flitted in and out, with quick desire to please him; the soft pretty smile with which his improvements of Beckley dialect were received; and the sweet gray eyes that filled with tears so, the day before his college met. Hardenow had feared, humble-minded as he was, that the young girl might be falling into liking him too well; and he knew that there might be on his own part too much reciprocity. Therefore (much as he loved Cripps, and fully as he allowed for all that was to be said upon every side), he had felt himself bound to take no more than a distant view of Beckley. Even now, after three years and a half, there was some resolve in him to that effect, or the residue of a resolution. He turned from the gentle invitation of the distant bells, and went on with his face set towards the house of his old friend, Overshute. When he came to the lodge (which was like a great beehive stuck at the end of a row of trees), it caused him a little surprise to find the gate wide open, and nobody there. But he thought that, as it was Sunday, perhaps the lodge-people were gone for a holiday; and so he trudged onward, and met no one to throw any light upon anything. In this way he came to the door at last, with the fine old porch of Purbeck stone heavily overhanging it, and the long wings of the house stretched out, with empty windows either way. Hardenow rang and knocked, and then set to and knocked and rang again; and then sat down on a stone balustrade; and then jumped up with just vigour renewed, and pushed and pulled, and in every way worked to the utmost degree of capacity everything that had ever been gifted with any power of conducting sound. Nobody answered. The sound of his energy went into places far away, and echoed there, and then from stony corners came back to him. He traced the whole range of the windows and caught no sign of any life inside them. At last, he pushed the great door, and lo! there was nothing to resist his thrust, except its sullen weight. When Hardenow stood in the old-fashioned hall, which was not at all "baronial," he found himself getting into such a fright that he had a great mind to go away again. If there had only been anybody with him--however inferior in "mental power"--he might have been able to refresh himself by demonstrating something, and then have marched on to the practical proof. But now he was all by himself, in strange and unaccountable loneliness. The sense of his condition perhaps induced him to set to and shout. The silence was so oppressive, that the sound of his own voice almost alarmed him by its audacity. So, after shouting "Russel!" thrice, he stopped, and listened, and heard nothing except that cold and shuddering ring, as of hardware in frosty weather, which stone and plaster and timber give when deserted by their lords--mankind. Knowing pretty well all the chief rooms of the house, Hardenow resolved to go and see if they were locked; and grasping his black holly-stick for self-defence, he made for the dining-room. The door was wide open; the cloth on the table, with knives and forks and glasses placed, as if for a small dinner-party; but the only guest visible was a long-legged spider, with a sound and healthy appetite, who had come down to dine from the oak beams overhead, and was sitting in his web between a claret bottle and a cruet-stand, ready to receive with a cordial clasp any eligible visitor. Hardenow tasted the water in a jug, and found it quite stale and nasty; then he opened a napkin, and the bread inside it was dry and hard as biscuit. Then he saw with still further surprise that the windows were open to their utmost extent, and the basket of plate was on the sideboard. "My old friend Russel, my dear old fellow!" he cried with his hand on his heart where lurked disease as yet unsuspected, "what strange misfortune has befallen you? No wonder my letter was left unanswered. Perhaps the dear fellow is now being buried, and every one gone to his funeral. But no; if it were so, these things would not be thus. The funeral feast is a grand institution. Everything would be fresh and lively, and five leaves put into the dinner-table." With this true reflection, he left the room to seek the solution elsewhere. He failed, however, to find it in any of the downstair sitting-rooms. Then he went even into the kitchen, thinking the liberty allowable under such conditions. The grate was cold and the table bare; on the one lay a drift of soot, on the other a level deposit of dust, with a few grimy implements to distribute it. Hardenow made up his mind for the worst. He was not addicted to fiction (as haply was indicated by his good degree), but he could not help recalling certain eastern and even classic tales; and if he had come upon all the household sitting in native marble, or from the waistband downward turned into fish, or logs, or dragons, he might have been partly surprised, but must have been wholly thankful for the explanation. Failing however to discover this, and being resolved to go through with the matter, the tutor of Brasenose mounted the black oak staircase of this enchanted house. At the head of the stairs was a wide, low passage, leading right and left from a balustraded gallery. The young man chose first the passage to the right, and tightening his grip of the stick, strode on. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRE-BELL. The doors of the rooms on either side were not only open but fastened back; the sashes of the windows were all thrown up; and the rain, which had followed when the east wind fell, had entered and made puddles on the sills inside. Such a draught of air rushed down the passage that Hardenow's lengthy skirts flickered out, in the orthodox fashion, behind him. At the end of this passage he came to a small alcove, fenced off with a loose white curtain, shaking and jerking itself in the wind. He put this aside with his stick; and two doorways, leading into separate rooms, but with no doors in them, faced him. Something told him that both these rooms held human life, or human death. First he looked in at the one on the left. He expected to see lonely death; perhaps corruption; or he knew not what. His nerves were strung or unstrung (whichever is the medical way of putting it) to such a degree that he wholly forgot, or entirely put by, everything, except his own absorbing sense of his duty, as a man in holy orders. This duty had never been practised yet in any serious way, because he had never been able to afford it. It costs so much more money than it brings in. However, in the midst of more lucrative work, he had felt that he was sacred to it--rich or poor--and he often had a special hankering after it. This leaning towards the cure of souls had a good chance now of being gratified. In the room on the left hand he saw a little bed, laid at the foot of a fat four-poster, which with carved mouths grinned at it; and on this little bed of white (without curtain, or trimming, or tester), lay a lady, or a lady's body, cast down recklessly, in sleep or death, with the face entirely covered by a silvery cloud of hair. From the manner in which one arm was bent, Hardenow thought that the lady lived. There was nothing else to show it. Being a young man, a gentleman also, he hung back and trembled back from entering that room. Without any power to "revolve things well," as he always directed his pupils to do, Hardenow stepped to the other doorway, and silently settled his gaze inside. His eyes were so worried that he could not trust them, until he had time to consider what they told. They told him a tale even stranger than that which had grown upon him for an hour now, and passed from a void alarm into a terror; they showed him the loveliest girl--according to their rendering--that ever they had rested on till now; a maiden sitting in a low chair reading, silently sometimes, and sometimes in a whisper, according to some signal, perhaps, of which he saw no sign. There was no other person in the room, so far as he could see; and he strained his eyes with extreme anxiety to make out that. The Rev. Thomas Hardenow knew (as clearly as his keen perception ever had brought any knowledge home) that he was not discharging the functions now--unless they were too catholic--of the sacerdotal office, in watching a young woman through a doorway, without either leave or notice. But though he must have been aware of this, it scarcely seemed now to occur to him; or whether it did, or did not, he went on in the same manner gazing. The girl could not see him; it was not fair play. The width of great windows, for instance, kept up such a rattling of blinds, and such flapping of cords, and even the floor was so strewn with herbs (for the sake of their aroma), that anybody might quite come close to anybody who had cast away fear (in the vast despair of prostration), without any sense of approach until perhaps hand was laid upon shoulder. Hardenow took no more advantage of these things than about half a minute. In that half-minute, however, his outward faculties (being all alive with fear) rendered to his inward and endiathetic organs a picture, a schema, or a plasm--the proper word may be left to him--such as would remain inside, at least while the mind abode there. The sound of low, laborious breath pervaded the sick room now and then, between the creaking noises and the sighing of the wind. In spite of all draughts, the air was heavy with the scent of herbs strewn broadcast, to prevent infection--tansy, wormwood, rue, and sage, burnt lavender and rosemary. The use of acids in malignant fevers was at that time much in vogue, and saucers of vinegar and verjuice, steeped lemon-peel, and such like, as well as dozens of medicine bottles, stood upon little tables. Still Hardenow could not see the patient; only by following the glance of the reader could he discover the direction. It was the girl herself, however, on whom his wondering eyes were bent. At first he seemed to know her face, and then he was sure that he must have been wrong. The sense of doing good, and the wonderful influence of pity, had changed the face of a pretty girl into that of a beautiful woman. Hardenow banished his first idea, and wondered what strange young lady this could be. Although she was reading aloud, and doing it not so very badly, it was plain enough that she expected no one to listen to her. The sound of her voice, perhaps, was soothing to some one who understood no words; as people (in some of the many unknown conditions of brain) have been soothed and recovered by a thread of waterfall broken with a walking-stick. At any rate, she read on, and her reading fell like decent poetry. Hardenow scarcely knew what he ought to do. He did not like to go forward; and it was a mean thing to go backward, rendering no help, when help seemed wanted so extremely. He peeped back into the other room; and there was the lady with the fine white hair, sleeping as soundly as a weary top driven into dreaming by extreme activity of blows. Nothing less than a fine idea could have delivered Hardenow from this bad situation. It was suddenly borne in upon his mind that the house had a rare old fire-bell, a relic of nobler ages, hanging from a bar in a little open cot, scarcely big enough for a hen-roost; and Russel had shown him one day, with a laugh, the corner in which the rope hung. There certainly could be but very little chance of doing harm by ringing it; what could be worse than the present state of things? Some good Samaritan might come. No Levite was left to be driven away. For Hardenow understood the situation now. The meaning of a very short paragraph in the Oxford paper of Saturday, which he had glanced at and cast by, came distinctly home to him. The careful editor had omitted name of person and of place, but had made his report quite clear to those who held a key to the reference. "How very dull-witted now I must be!" cried the poor young fellow in his lonely trouble. "I ought to have known it. But we never know the clearest things until too late." It was not only for the sake of acquitting himself of an awkward matter, but also in the hope of doing good to the few left desolate, that Hardenow moved forth his legs, from the windy white curtain away again. He went down the passage at a very great pace, as nearly akin to a run as the practice of long steady walks permitted; and then at the head of the staircase he turned, and remembered a quiet little corner. Here, in an out-of-the-way recess, the rope of the alarm-bell hung; and he saw it, even in that niche, moving to and fro with the universal draught. Hardenow seized it, and rang such a peal as the old bell had never given tongue to before. The bell was a large one, sound and clear; and the call must have startled the neighbourhood for a mile, if it could be startled. "Really, I do believe I have roused somebody at last!" exclaimed the ringer, as he looked through a window commanding the road to the house, and saw a man on horse-back coming. "But, surely, unless he sprang out of the ground, he must have been coming before I began." In this strange loneliness, almost any visitor would be welcome; and Hardenow ran towards the top of the stairs to see who it was, and to meet him. But here, as he turned the corner of the balustraded gallery, a scared and hurrying young woman, almost ran into his arms. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, drawing back, and blushing to a deeper colour than well-extracted blood can show; "there is no funeral yet! He is not dead! Who is ringing the bell so? It has startled even him, and will either kill or save him! Kill him, it will kill him, I am almost sure!" "Esther--Miss Cripps--what a fool I am! I never thought of that--I did not know--how could I tell? I am all in the dark! Is it Russel Overshute?" "Yes, Mr. Hardenow. Everybody knows it. Every

criss

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

futile

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

payments

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

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"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

self

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

imperative

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

play

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

prayer

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

duty

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

rectory

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

shouts

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

therefore

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

lengths

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

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"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

dusty

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

room

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

marry

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

"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

poets

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"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

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"Of course I am; I always am quite wrong." "Quite wrong in mixing up two things; Doctor Thorne as an acquaintance, and Dr Thorne as a doctor." "It is dreadful to have him here, even standing in the room with me. How can one talk to one's doctor openly and confidentially when one looks upon him as one's worst enemy?" And Lady Arabella, softening, almost melted into tears. "My dear, you cannot wonder that I should be anxious for you." Lady Arabella gave a little snuffle, which might be taken as a not very eloquent expression of thanks for the squire's solicitude, or as an ironical jeer at his want of sincerity. "And, therefore, I have not lost a moment in telling you what Sir Omicron said. 'You should have Thorne back here;' those were his very words. You can think it over, my dear. And remember this, Bell; if he is to do any good no time should be lost." And then the squire left the room, and Lady Arabella remained alone, perplexed by many doubts. CHAPTER XXXII Mr Oriel I must now, shortly--as shortly as it is in my power to do it--introduce a new character to my reader. Mention has been made of the rectory of Greshamsbury; but, hitherto, no opportunity has offered itself for the Rev Caleb Oriel to come upon the boards. Mr Oriel was a man of family and fortune, who, having gone to Oxford with the usual views of such men, had become inoculated there with very High-Church principles, and had gone into orders influenced by a feeling of enthusiastic love for the priesthood. He was by no means an ascetic--such men, indeed, seldom are--nor was he a devotee. He was a man well able, and certainly willing, to do the work of a parish clergyman; and when he became one, he was efficacious in his profession. But it may perhaps be said of him, without speaking slanderously, that his original calling, as a young man, was rather to the outward and visible signs of religion than to its inward and spiritual graces. He delighted in lecterns and credence-tables, in services at dark hours of winter mornings when no one would attend, in high waistcoats and narrow white neckties, in chanted services and intoned prayers, and in all the paraphernalia of Anglican formalities which have given such offence to those of our brethren who live in daily fear of the scarlet lady. Many of his friends declared that Mr Oriel would sooner or later deliver himself over body and soul to that lady; but there was no need to fear for him: for though sufficiently enthusiastic to get out of bed at five a.m. on winter mornings--he did so, at least, all through his first winter at Greshamsbury--he was not made of that stuff which is necessary for a staunch, burning, self-denying convert. It was not in him to change his very sleek black coat for a Capuchin's filthy cassock, nor his pleasant parsonage for some dirty hole in Rome. And it was better so both for him and others. There are but few, very few, to whom it is given to be a Huss, a Wickliffe, or a Luther; and a man gains but little by being a false Huss, or a false Luther,--and his neighbours gain less. But certain lengths in self-privation Mr Oriel did go; at any rate, for some time. He eschewed matrimony, imagining that it became him as a priest to do so. He fasted rigorously on Fridays; and the neighbours declared that he scourged himself. Mr Oriel was, as it has been said, a man of fortune; that is to say, when he came of age he was master of thirty thousand pounds. When he took it into his head to go into the Church, his friends bought for him the next presentation to the living at Greshamsbury; and, a year after his ordination, the living falling in, Mr Oriel brought himself and his sister to the rectory. Mr Oriel soon became popular. He was a dark-haired, good-looking man, of polished manners, agreeable in society, not given to monkish austerities--except in the matter of Fridays--nor yet to the Low-Church severity of demeanour. He was thoroughly a gentleman, good-humoured, inoffensive, and sociable. But he had one fault: he was not a marrying man. On this ground there was a feeling against him so strong as almost at one time to throw him into serious danger. It was not only that he should be sworn against matrimony in his individual self--he whom fate had made so able to sustain the weight of a wife and family; but what an example he was setting! If other clergymen all around should declare against wives and families, what was to become of the country? What was to be done in the rural districts? The religious observances, as regards women, of a Brigham Young were hardly so bad as this! There were around Greshamsbury very many unmarried ladies--I believe there generally are so round most such villages. From the great house he did not receive much annoyance. Beatrice was then only just on the verge of being brought out, and was not perhaps inclined to think very much of a young clergyman; and Augusta certainly intended to fly at higher game. But there were the Miss Athelings, the daughters of a neighbouring clergyman, who were ready to go all lengths with him in High-Church matters, except as that one tremendously papal step of celibacy; and the two Miss Hesterwells, of Hesterwell Park, the younger of whom boldly declared her purpose of civilising the savage; and Mrs Opie Green, a very pretty widow, with a very pretty jointure, who lived in a very pretty house about a mile from Greshamsbury, and who declared her opinion that Mr Oriel was quite right in his view of a clergyman's position. How could a woman, situated as she was, have the comfort of a clergyman's attention if he were to be regarded just as any other man? She could now know in what light to regard Mr Oriel, and would be able without scruple to avail herself of his zeal. So she did avail herself of his zeal,--and that without any scruple. And then there was Miss Gushing,--a young thing. Miss Gushing had a great advantage over the other competitors for the civilisation of Mr Oriel, namely, in this--that she was able to attend his morning services. If Mr Oriel was to be reached in any way, it was probable that he might be reached in this way. If anything could civilise him, this would do it. Therefore, the young thing, through all one long, tedious winter, tore herself from her warm bed, and was to be seen--no, not seen, but heard--entering Mr Oriel's church at six o'clock. With indefatigable assiduity the responses were made, uttered from under a close bonnet, and out of a dark corner, in an enthusiastically feminine voice, through the whole winter. Nor did Miss Gushing altogether fail in her object. When a clergyman's daily audience consists of but one person, and that person is a young lady, it is hardly possible that he should not become personally intimate with her; hardly possible that he should not be in some measure grateful. Miss Gushing's responses came from her with such fervour, and she begged for ghostly advice with such eager longing to have her scruples satisfied, that Mr Oriel had nothing for it but to give way to a certain amount of civilisation. By degrees it came to pass that Miss Gushing could never get her final prayer said, her shawl and boa adjusted, and stow away her nice new Prayer-Book with the red letters inside, and the cross on the back, till Mr Oriel had been into his vestry and got rid of his surplice. And then they met at the church-porch, and naturally walked together till Mr Oriel's cruel gateway separated them. The young thing did sometimes think that, as the parson's civilisation progressed, he might have taken the trouble to walk with her as far as Mr Yates Umbleby's hall door; but she had hope to sustain her, and a firm resolve to merit success, even though she might not attain it. "Is it not ten thousand pities," she once said to him, "that none here should avail themselves of the inestimable privilege which your coming has conferred upon us? Oh, Mr Oriel, I do so wonder at it! To me it is so delightful! The morning service in the dark church is so beautiful, so touching!" "I suppose they think it is a bore getting up so early," said Mr Oriel. "Ah, a bore!" said Miss Gushing, in an enthusiastic tone of depreciation. "How insensate they must be! To me it gives a new charm to life. It quiets one for the day; makes one so much fitter for one's daily trials and daily troubles. Does it not, Mr Oriel?" "I look upon morning prayer as an imperative duty, certainly." "Oh, certainly, a most imperative duty; but so delicious at the same time. I spoke to Mrs Umbleby about it, but she said she could not leave the children." "No: I dare say not," said Mr Oriel. "And Mr Umbleby said his business kept him up so late at night." "Very probably. I hardly expect the attendance of men of business." "But the servants might come, mightn't they, Mr Oriel?" "I fear that servants seldom can have time for daily prayers in church." "Oh, ah, no; perhaps not." And then Miss Gushing began to bethink herself of whom should be composed the congregation which it must be presumed that Mr Oriel wished to see around him. But on this matter he did not enlighten her. Then Miss Gushing took to fasting on Fridays, and made some futile attempts to induce her priest to give her the comfort of confessional absolution. But, unfortunately, the zeal of the master waxed cool as that of the pupil waxed hot; and, at last, when the young thing returned to Greshamsbury from an autumn excursion which she had made with Mrs Umbleby to Weston-super-Mare, she found that the delicious morning services had died a natural death. Miss Gushing did not on that account give up the game, but she was bound to fight with no particular advantage in her favour. Miss Oriel, though a good Churchwoman, was by no means a convert to her brother's extremist views, and perhaps gave but scanty credit to the Gushings, Athelings, and Opie Greens for the sincerity of their religion. But, nevertheless, she and her brother were staunch friends; and she still hoped to see the day when he might be induced to think that an English parson might get through his parish work with the assistance of a wife better than he could do without such feminine encumbrance. The girl whom she selected for his bride was not the young thing, but Beatrice Gresham. And at last it seemed probable to Mr Oriel's nearest friends that he was in a fair way to be overcome. Not that he had begun to make love to Beatrice, or committed himself by the utterance of any opinion as to the propriety of clerical marriages; but he daily became looser about his peculiar tenets, raved less immoderately than heretofore as to the atrocity of the Greshamsbury church pews, and was observed to take some opportunities of conversing alone with Beatrice. Beatrice had always denied the imputation--this had usually been made by Mary in their happy days--with vehement asseverations of anger; and Miss Gushing had tittered, and expressed herself as supposing that great people's daughters might be as barefaced as they pleased. All this had happened previous to the great Greshamsbury feud. Mr Oriel gradually got himself into a way of sauntering up to the great house, sauntering into the drawing-room for the purpose, as I am sure he thought, of talking to Lady Arabella, and then of sauntering home again, having usually found an opportunity for saying a few words to Beatrice during the visit. This went on all through the feud up to the period of Lady Arabella's illness; and then one morning, about a month before the date fixed for Frank's return, Mr Oriel found himself engaged to Miss Beatrice Gresham. From the day that Miss Gushing heard of it--which was not however for some considerable time after this--she became an Independent Methodist. She could no longer, she said at first, have any faith in any religion; and for an hour or so she was almost tempted to swear that she could no longer have any faith in any man. She had nearly completed a worked cover for a credence-table when the news reached her, as to which, in the young enthusiasm of her heart, she had not been able to remain silent; it had already been promised to Mr Oriel; that promise she swore should not be kept. He was an apostate, she said, from his principles; an utter pervert; a false, designing man, with whom she would never have trusted herself alone on dark mornings had she known that he had such grovelling, worldly inclinations. So Miss Gushing became an Independent Methodist; the credence-table covering was cut up into slippers for the preacher's feet; and the young thing herself, more happy in this direction than she had been in the other, became the arbiter of that preacher's domestic happiness. But this little history of Miss Gushing's future life is premature. Mr Oriel became engaged demurely, nay, almost silently, to Beatrice, and no one out of their own immediate families was at the time informed of the matter. It was arranged very differently from those two other matches--embryo, or not embryo, those, namely, of Augusta with Mr Moffat, and Frank with Mary Thorne. All Barsetshire had heard of them; but that of Beatrice and Mr Oriel was managed in a much more private manner. "I do think you are a happy girl," said Patience to her one morning. "Indeed I am." "He is so good. You don't know how good he is as yet; he never thinks of himself, and thinks so much of those he loves." Beatrice took her friend's hand in her own and kissed it. She was full of joy. When a girl is about to be married, when she may lawfully talk of her love, there is no music in her ears so sweet as the praises of her lover. "I made up my mind from the first that he should marry you." "Nonsense, Patience." "I did, indeed. I made up my mind that he should marry; and there were only two to choose from." "Me and Miss Gushing," said Beatrice, laughing. "No; not exactly Miss Gushing. I had not many fears for Caleb there." "I declare she's very pretty," said Beatrice, who could afford to be good-natured. Now Miss Gushing certainly was pretty; and would have been very pretty had her nose not turned up so much, and could she have parted her hair in the centre. "Well, I am very glad you chose me;--if it was you who chose," said Beatrice, modestly; having, however, in her own mind a strong opinion that Mr Oriel had chosen for himself, and had never had any doubt in the matter. "And who was the other?" "Can't you guess?" "I won't guess any more; perhaps Mrs Green." "Oh, no; certainly not a widow. I don't like widows marrying. But of course you could guess if you would; of course it was Mary Thorne. But I soon saw Mary would not do, for two reasons; Caleb would never have liked her well enough nor would she ever have liked him." "Not like him! oh I hope she will; I do so love Mary Thorne." "So do I, dearly; and so does Caleb; but he could never have loved her as he loves you." "But, Patience, have you told Mary?" "No, I have told no one, and shall not without your leave." "Ah, you must tell her. Tell it her with my best, and kindest, warmest love. Tell her how happy I am, and how I long to talk to her. Tell that I will have her for my bridesmaid. Oh! I do hope that before that all this horrid quarrel will be settled." Patience undertook the commission, and did tell Mary; did give her also the message which Beatrice had sent. And Mary was rejoiced to hear it; for though, as Patience had said of her, she had never herself felt any inclination to fall in love with Mr Oriel, she believed him to be one in whose hands her friend's happiness would be secure. Then, by degrees, the conversation changed from the loves of Mr Oriel and Beatrice to the troubles of Frank Gresham and herself. "She says, that let what will happen you shall be one of her bridesmaids." "Ah, yes, dear Trichy! that was settled between us in auld lang syne; but those settlements are all unsettled now, must all be broken. No, I cannot be her bridesmaid; but I shall yet hope to see her once before her marriage." "And why not be her bridesmaid? Lady Arabella will hardly object to that." "Lady Arabella!" said Mary, curling her lip with deep scorn. "I do not care that for Lady Arabella," and she let her silver thimble fall from her fingers on to the table. "If Beatrice invited me to her wedding, she might manage as to that; I should ask no question as to Lady Arabella." "Then why not come to it?" She remained silent for a while, and then boldly answered. "Though I do not care for Lady Arabella, I do care for Mr Gresham:--and I do care for his son." "But the squire always loved you." "Yes, and therefore I will not be there to vex his sight. I will tell you the truth, Patience. I can never be in that house again till Frank Gresham is a married man, or till I am about to be a married woman. I do not think they have treated me well, but I will not treat them ill." "I am sure you will not do that," said Miss Oriel. "I will endeavour not to do so; and, therefore, will go to none of their f tes! No, Patience." And then she turned her head to the arm of the sofa, and silently, without audible sobs, hiding her face, she endeavoured to get rid of her tears unseen. For one moment she had all but resolved to pour out the whole truth of her love into her friend's ears; but suddenly she changed her mind. Why should she talk of her own unhappiness? Why should she speak of her own love when she was fully determined not to speak of Frank's promises. "Mary, dear Mary." "Anything but pity, Patience; anything but that," said she, convulsively, swallowing down her sobs, and rubbing away her tears. "I cannot bear that. Tell Beatrice from me, that I wish her every happiness; and, with such a husband, I am sure she will be happy. I wish her every joy; give her my kindest love; but tell her I cannot be at her marriage. Oh, I should so like to see her; not there, you know, but here, in my own room, where I still have liberty to speak." "But why should you decide now? She is not to be married yet, you know." "Now, or this day twelvemonth, can make no difference. I will not go into that house again, unless--but never mind; I will not go into it all; never, never again. If I could forgive her for myself, I could not forgive her for my uncle. But tell me, Patience, might not Beatrice now come here? It is so dreadful to see her every Sunday in church and never to speak to her, never to kiss her. She seems to look away from me as though she too had chosen to quarrel with me." Miss Oriel promised to do her best. She could not imagine, she said, that such a visit could be objected to on such an occasion. She would not advise Beatrice to come without telling her mother; but she could not think that Lady Arabella would be so cruel as to make any objection, knowing, as she could not but know, that her daughter, when married, would be at liberty to choose her own friends. "Good-bye, Mary," said Patience. "I wish I knew how to say more to comfort you." "Oh, comfort! I don't want comfort. I want to be let alone." "That's just it: you are so ferocious in your scorn, so unbending, so determined to take all the punishment that comes in your way." "What I do take, I'll take without complaint," said Mary; and then they kissed each other and parted. CHAPTER XXXIII A Morning Visit It must be remembered that Mary, among her miseries, had to suffer this: that since Frank's departure, now nearly twelve months ago, she had not heard a word about him; or rather, she had only heard that he was very much in love with some lady in London. This news reached her in a manner so circuitous, and from such a doubtful source; it seemed to her to savour so strongly of Lady Arabella's precautions, that she attributed it at once to malice, and blew it to the winds. It might not improbably be the case that Frank was untrue to her; but she would not take it for granted because she was now told so. It was more than probable that he should amuse himself with some one; flirting was his prevailing sin; and if he did flirt, the most would of course be made of it. But she found it to be very desolate to be thus left alone without a word of comfort or a word of love; without being able to speak to any one of what filled her heart; doubting, nay, more than doubting, being all but sure that her passion must terminate in misery. Why had she not obeyed her conscience and her better instinct in that moment when the necessity for deciding had come upon her? Why had she allowed him to understand that he was master of her heart? Did she not know that there was everything against such a marriage as that which he proposed? Had she not done wrong, very wrong, even to think of it? Had she not sinned deeply, against Mr Gresham, who had ever been so kind to her? Could she hope, was it possible, that a boy like Frank should be true to his first love? And, if he were true, if he were ready to go to the altar with her to-morrow, ought she to allow him to degrade himself by such a marriage? There was, alas! some truth about the London lady. Frank had taken his degree, as arranged, and had then gone abroad for the winter, doing the fashionable things, going up the Nile, crossing over to Mount Sinai, thence over the long desert to Jerusalem, and home by Damascus, Beyrout, and Constantinople, bringing back a long beard, a red cap, and a chibook, just as our fathers used to go through Italy and Switzerland, and our grandfathers to spend a season in Paris. He had then remained for a couple of months in London, going through all the society which the de Courcys were able to open to him. And it was true that a certain belle of the season, of that season and some others, had been captivated--for the tenth time--by the silken sheen of his long beard. Frank had probably been more demonstrative, perhaps even more susceptible, than he should have been; and hence the rumour, which had all too willingly been forwarded to Greshamsbury. But young Gresham had also met another lady in London, namely Miss Dunstable. Mary would indeed have been grateful to Miss Dunstable, could she have known all that lady did for her. Frank's love was never allowed to flag. When he spoke of the difficulties in his way, she twitted him by being overcome by straws; and told him that no one was worth having who was afraid of every lion that he met in his path. When he spoke of money, she bade him earn it; and always ended by offering to smooth for him any real difficulty which want of means might put in his way. "No," Frank used to say to himself, when these offers were made, "I never intended to take her and her money together; and, therefore, I certainly will never take the money alone." A day or two after Miss Oriel's visit, Mary received the following note from Beatrice. DEAREST, DEAREST MARY, I shall be so happy to see you, and will come to-morrow at twelve. I have asked mamma, and she says that, for once, she has no objection. You know it is not my fault that I have never been with you; don't you? Frank comes home on the 12th. Mr Oriel wants the wedding to be on the 1st of September; but that seems to be so very, very soon; doesn't it? However, mamma and papa are all on his side. I won't write about this, though, for we shall have such a delicious talk. Oh, Mary! I have been so unhappy without you. Ever your own affectionate, TRICHY Monday. Though Mary was delighted at the idea of once more having her friend in her arms, there was, nevertheless, something in this letter which oppressed her. She could not put up with the idea that Beatrice should have permission given to come to her--just for once. She hardly wished to be seen by permission. Nevertheless, she did not refuse the proffered visit, and the first sight of Beatrice's face, the first touch of the first embrace, dissipated for the moment all her anger. And then Beatrice fully enjoyed the delicious talk which she had promised herself. Mary let her have her way, and for two hours all the delights and all the duties, all the comforts and all the responsibilities of a parson's wife were discussed with almost equal ardour on both sides. The duties and responsibilities were not exactly those which too often fall to the lot of the mistress of an English vicarage. Beatrice was not doomed to make her husband comfortable, to educate her children, dress herself like a lady, and exercise open-handed charity on an income of two hundred pounds a year. Her duties and responsibilities would have to spread themselves over seven or eight times that amount of worldly burden. Living also close to Greshamsbury, and not far from Courcy Castle, she would have the full advantages and all the privileges of county society. In fact, it was all _couleur de rose_, and so she chatted deliciously with her friend. But it was impossible that they should separate without something having been said as to Mary's own lot. It would, perhaps, have been better that they should do so; but this was hardly within the compass of human nature. "And Mary, you know, I shall be able to see you as often as I like;--you and Dr Thorne, too, when I have a house of my own." Mary said nothing, but essayed to smile. It was but a ghastly attempt. "You know how happy that will make me," continued Beatrice. "Of course mamma won't expect me to be led by her then: if he likes it, there can be no objection; and he will like it, you may be sure of that." "You are very kind, Trichy," said Mary; but she spoke in a tone very different from that she would have used eighteen months ago. "Why, what is the matter, Mary? Shan't you be glad to come to see us?" "I do not know, dearest; that must depend on circumstances. To see you, you yourself, your own dear, sweet, loving face must always be pleasant to me." "And shan't you be glad to see him?" "Yes, certainly, if he loves you." "Of course he loves me." "All that alone would be pleasant enough, Trichy. But what if there should be circumstances which should still make us enemies; should make your friends and my friends--friend, I should say, for I have only one--should make them opposed to each other?" "Circumstances! What circumstances?" "You are going to be married, Trichy, to the man you love; are you not?" "Indeed, I am!" "And it is not pleasant? is it not a happy feeling?" "Pleasant! happy! yes, very pleasant; very happy. But, Mary, I am not at all in such a hurry as he is," said Beatrice, naturally thinking of her own little affairs. "And, suppose I should wish to be married to the man that I love?" Mary said this slowly and gravely, and as she spoke she looked her friend full in the face. Beatrice was somewhat astonished, and for the moment hardly understood. "I am sure I hope you will, some day." "No, Trichy; no, you hope the other way. I love your brother; I love Frank Gresham; I love him quite as well, quite as warmly, as you love Caleb Oriel." "Do you?" said Beatrice, staring with all her eyes, and giving one long sigh, as this new subject for sorrow was so distinctly put before her. "It that so odd?" said Mary. "You love Mr Oriel, though you have been intimate with him hardly more than two years. Is it so odd that I should love your brother, whom I have known almost all my life?" "But, Mary, I thought it was always understood between us that--that--I mean that you were not to care about him; not in the way of loving him,

pass

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

middies

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

annapolis

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

coat

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

predicted

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

treasure

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

light

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

asked

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

means

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

peaks

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

blazed

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

thump

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

question

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

utmost

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

feet

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

fidelity

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

covering

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

mopish

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

much

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

"served with him under Maury. His detachment of the weight is really the starting point for every new improvement in sounding gear. The English, the French, and even our own, are nothing but modifications of that fundamental principle. Exceedingly clever fellow!" "Bottom!" sang out one of the men standing near the derrick and watching the operations. The Captain and the Lieutenant immediately advanced to question him. "What's the depth, Coleman?" asked the Lieutenant. "21,762 feet," was the prompt reply, which Brownson immediately inscribed in his note-book, handing a duplicate to the Captain. "All right, Lieutenant," observed the Captain, after a moment's inspection of the figures. "While I enter it in the log, you haul the line aboard. To do so, I need hardly remind you, is a task involving care and patience. In spite of all our gallant little donkey engine can do, it's a six hours job at least. Meanwhile, the Chief Engineer had better give orders for firing up, so that we may be ready to start as soon as you're through. It's now close on to four bells, and with your permission I shall turn in. Let me be called at three. Good night!" "Goodnight, Captain!" replied Brownson, who spent the next two hours pacing backward and forward on the quarter deck, watching the hauling in of the sounding line, and occasionally casting a glance towards all quarters of the sky. It was a glorious night. The innumerable stars glittered with the brilliancy of the purest gems. The ship, hove to in order to take the soundings, swung gently on the faintly heaving ocean breast. You felt you were in a tropical clime, for, though no breath fanned your cheek, your senses easily detected the delicious odor of a distant garden of sweet roses. The sea sparkled with phosphorescence. Not a sound was heard except the panting of the hard-worked little donkey-engine and the whirr of the line as it came up taut and dripping from the ocean depths. The lamp, hanging from the mast, threw a bright glare on deck, presenting the strongest contrast with the black shadows, firm and motionless as marble. The 11th day of December was now near its last hour. The steamer was the _Susquehanna_, a screw, of the United States Navy, 4,000 in tonnage, and carrying 20 guns. She had been detached to take soundings between the Pacific coast and the Sandwich Islands, the initiatory movement towards laying down an Ocean Cable, which the _Pacific Cable Company_ contemplated finally extending to China. She lay just now a few hundred miles directly south of San Diego, an old Spanish town in southwestern California, and the point which is expected to be the terminus of the great _Texas and Pacific Railroad_. The Captain, John Bloomsbury by name, but better known as 'High-Low Jack' from his great love of that game--the only one he was ever known to play--was a near relation of our old friend Colonel Bloomsbury of the Baltimore Gun Club. Of a good Kentucky family, and educated at Annapolis, he had passed his meridian without ever being heard of, when suddenly the news that he had run the gauntlet in a little gunboat past the terrible batteries of Island Number Ten, amidst a perfect storm of shell, grape and canister discharged at less than a hundred yards distance, burst on the American nation on the sixth of April, 1862, and inscribed his name at once in deep characters on the list of the giants of the Great War. But war had never been his vocation. With the return of peace, he had sought and obtained employment on the Western Coast Survey, where every thing he did he looked on as a labor of love. The Sounding Expedition he had particularly coveted, and, once entered upon it, he discharged his duties with characteristic energy. He could not have had more favorable weather than the present for a successful performance of the nice and delicate investigations of sounding. His vessel had even been fortunate enough to have lain altogether out of the track of the terrible wind storm already alluded to, which, starting from somewhere southwest of the Sierra Madre, had swept away every vestige of mist from the summits of the Rocky Mountains and, by revealing the Moon in all her splendor, had enabled Belfast to send the famous despatch announcing that he had seen the Projectile. Every feature of the expedition was, in fact, advancing so favorably that the Captain expected to be able, in a month or two, to submit to the _P.C. Company_ a most satisfactory report of his labors. Cyrus W. Field, the life and soul of the whole enterprise, flushed with honors still in full bloom (the Atlantic Telegraph Cable having been just laid), could congratulate himself with good reason on having found a treasure in the Captain. High-Low Jack was the congenial spirit by whose active and intelligent aid he promised himself the pleasure of seeing before long the whole Pacific Ocean covered with a vast reticulation of electric cables. The practical part, therefore, being in such safe hands, Mr. Field could remain with a quiet conscience in Washington, New York or London, seeing after the financial part of the grand undertaking, worthy of the Nineteenth Century, worthy of the Great Republic, and eminently worthy of the illustrious CYRUS W. himself! As already mentioned, the _Susquehanna_ lay a few hundred miles south of San Diego, or, to be more accurate, in 27 7' North Latitude and 118 37' West Longitude (Greenwich). It was now a little past midnight. The Moon, in her last quarter, was just beginning to peep over the eastern horizon. Lieutenant Brownson, leaving the quarter deck, had gone to the forecastle, where he found a crowd of officers talking together earnestly and directing their glasses towards her disc. Even here, out on the ocean, the Queen of the night, was as great an object of attraction as on the North American Continent generally, where, that very night and that very hour, at least 40 million pairs of eyes were anxiously gazing at her. Apparently forgetful that even the very best of their glasses could no more see the Projectile than angulate Sirius, the officers held them fast to their eyes for five minutes at a time, and then took them away only to talk with remarkable fluency on what they had not discovered. "Any sign of them yet, gentlemen?" asked Brownson gaily as he joined the group. "It's now pretty near time for them to put in an appearance. They're gone ten days I should think." "They're there, Lieutenant! not a doubt of it!" cried a young midshipman, fresh from Annapolis, and of course "throughly posted" in the latest revelations of Astronomy. "I feel as certain of their being there as I am of our being here on the forecastle of the _Susquehanna_!" "I must agree with you of course, Mr. Midshipman," replied Brownson with a slight smile; "I have no grounds whatever for contradicting you." "Neither have I," observed another officer, the surgeon of the vessel. "The Projectile was to have reached the Moon when at her full, which was at midnight on the 5th. To-day was the 11th. This gives them six days of clear light--time enough in all conscience not only to land safely but to install themselves quite comfortably in their new home. In fact, I see them there already--" "In my mind's eye, Horatio!" laughed one of the group. "Though the Doc wears glasses, he can see more than any ten men on board." --"Already"--pursued the Doctor, heedless of the interruption. "_Scene_, a stony valley near a Selenite stream; the Projectile on the right, half buried in volcanic _scoriae_, but apparently not much the worse for the wear; ring mountains, craters, sharp peaks, etc. all around; old MAC discovered taking observations with his levelling staff; BARBICAN perched on the summit of a sharp pointed rock, writing up his note-book; ARDAN, eye-glass on nose, hat under arm, legs apart, puffing at his _Imperador_, like a--" [Illustration: MAC DISCOVERED TAKING OBSERVATIONS.] --"A locomotive!" interrupted the young Midshipman, his excitable imagination so far getting the better of him as to make him forget his manners. He had just finished Locke's famous MOON HOAX, and his brain was still full of its pictures. "In the background," he went on, "can be seen thousands of _Vespertiliones-Homines_ or _Man-Bats_, in all the various attitudes of curiosity, alarm, or consternation; some of them peeping around the rocks, some fluttering from peak to peak, all gibbering a language more or less resembling the notes of birds. _Enter_ LUNATICO, King of the Selenites--" "Excuse us, Mr. Midshipman," interrupted Brownson with an easy smile, "Locke's authority may have great weight among the young Middies at Annapolis, but it does not rank very high at present in the estimation of practical scientists." This rebuff administered to the conceited little Midshipman, a rebuff which the Doctor particularly relished, Brownson continued: "Gentlemen, we certainly know nothing whatever regarding our friends' fate; guessing gives no information. How we ever are to hear from the Moon until we are connected with it by a lunar cable, I can't even imagine. The probability is that we shall never--" "Excuse me, Lieutenant," interrupted the unrebuffed little Midshipman; "Can't Barbican write?" A shout of derisive comments greeted this question. "Certainly he can write, and send his letter by the Pony Express!" cried one. "A Postal Card would be cheaper!" cried another. "The _New York Herald_ will send a reporter after it!" was the exclamation of a third. "Keep cool, just keep cool, gentlemen," persisted the little Midshipman, not in the least abashed by the uproarious hilarity excited by his remarks. "I asked if Barbican couldn't write. In that question I see nothing whatever to laugh at. Can't a man write without being obliged to send his letters?" "This is all nonsense," said the Doctor. "What's the use of a man writing to you if he can't send you what he writes?" "What's the use of his sending it to you if he can have it read without that trouble?" answered the little Midshipman in a confident tone. "Is there not a telescope at Long's Peak? Doesn't it bring the Moon within a few miles of the Rocky Mountains, and enable us to see on her surface, objects as small as nine feet in diameter? Well! What's to prevent Barbican and his friends from constructing a gigantic alphabet? If they write words of even a few hundred yards and sentences a mile or two long, what is to prevent us from reading them? Catch the idea now, eh?" They did catch the idea, and heartily applauded the little Middy for his smartness. Even the Doctor saw a certain kind of merit in it, and Brownson acknowledged it to be quite feasible. In fact, expanding on it, the Lieutenant assured his hearers that, by means of large parabolic reflectors, luminous groups of rays could be dispatched from the Earth, of sufficient brightness to establish direct communication even with Venus or Mars, where these rays would be quite as visible as the planet Neptune is from the Earth. He even added that those brilliant points of light, which have been quite frequently observed in Mars and Venus, are perhaps signals made to the Earth by the inhabitants of these planets. He concluded, however, by observing that, though we might by these means succeed in obtaining news from the Moon, we could not possibly send any intelligence back in return, unless indeed the Selenites had at their disposal optical instruments at least as good as ours. All agreed that this was very true, and, as is generally the case when one keeps all the talk to himself, the conversation now assumed so serious a turn that for some time it was hardly worth recording. At last the Chief Engineer, excited by some remark that had been made, observed with much earnestness: "You may say what you please, gentlemen, but I would willingly give my last dollar to know what has become of those brave men! Have they done anything? Have they seen anything? I hope they have. But I should dearly like to know. Ever so little success would warrant a repetition of the great experiment. The Columbiad is still to the good in Florida, as it will be for many a long day. There are millions of men to day as curious as I am upon the subject. Therefore it will be only a question of mere powder and bullets if a cargo of visitors is not sent to the Moon every time she passes our zenith. "Marston would be one of the first of them," observed Brownson, lighting his cigar. "Oh, he would have plenty of company!" cried the Midshipman. "I should be delighted to go if he'd only take me." "No doubt you would, Mr. Midshipman," said Brownson, "the wise men, you know, are not all dead yet." "Nor the fools either, Lieutenant," growled old Frisby, the fourth officer, getting tired of the conversation. "There is no question at all about it," observed another; "every time a Projectile started, it would take off as many as it could carry." "I wish it would only start often enough to improve the breed!" growled old Frisby. "I have no doubt whatever," added the Chief Engineer, "that the thing would get so fashionable at last that half the inhabitants of the Earth would take a trip to the Moon." "I should limit that privilege strictly to some of our friends in Washington," said old Frisby, whose temper had been soured probably by a neglect to recognize his long services; "and most of them I should by all means insist on sending to the Moon. Every month I would ram a whole raft of them into the Columbiad, with a charge under them strong enough to blow them all to the--But--Hey!--what in creation's that?" [Illustration: FOR A SECOND ONLY DID THEY CATCH ITS FLASH.] Whilst the officer was speaking, his companions had suddenly caught a sound in the air which reminded them immediately of the whistling scream of a Lancaster shell. At first they thought the steam was escaping somewhere, but, looking upwards, they saw that the strange noise proceeded from a ball of dazzling brightness, directly over their heads, and evidently falling towards them with tremendous velocity. Too frightened to say a word, they could only see that in its light the whole ship blazed like fireworks, and the whole sea glittered like a silver lake. Quicker than tongue can utter, or mind can conceive, it flashed before their eyes for a second, an enormous bolide set on fire by friction with the atmosphere, and gleaming in its white heat like a stream of molten iron gushing straight from the furnace. For a second only did they catch its flash before their eyes; then striking the bowsprit of the vessel, which it shivered into a thousand pieces, it vanished in the sea in an instant with a hiss, a scream, and a roar, all equally indescribable. For some time the utmost confusion reigned on deck. With eyes too dazzled to see, ears still ringing with the frightful combination of unearthly sounds, faces splashed with floods of sea water, and noses stifled with clouds of scalding steam, the crew of the _Susquehanna_ could hardly realize that their marvellous escape by a few feet from instant and certain destruction was an accomplished fact, not a frightful dream. They were still engaged in trying to open their eyes and to get the hot water out of their ears, when they suddenly heard the trumpet voice of Captain Bloomsbury crying, as he stood half dressed on the head of the cabin stairs: "What's up, gentlemen? In heaven's name, what's up?" The little Midshipman had been knocked flat by the concussion and stunned by the uproar. But before any body else could reply, his voice was heard, clear and sharp, piercing the din like an arrow: "It's THEY, Captain! Didn't I tell you so?" CHAPTER XXI. NEWS FOR MARSTON! In a few minutes, consciousness had restored order on board the _Susquehanna_, but the excitement was as great as ever. They had escaped by a hairsbreadth the terrible fate of being both burned and drowned without a moment's warning, without a single soul being left alive to tell the fatal tale; but on this neither officer nor man appeared to bestow the slightest thought. They were wholly engrossed with the terrible catastrophe that had befallen the famous adventurers. What was the loss of the _Susquehanna_ and all it contained, in comparison to the loss experienced by the world at large in the terrible tragic _d nouement_ just witnessed? The worst had now come to the worst. At last the long agony was over forever. Those three gallant men, who had not only conceived but had actually executed the grandest and most daring enterprise of ancient or modern times, had paid by the most fearful of deaths, for their sublime devotion to science and their unselfish desire to extend the bounds of human knowledge! Before such a reflection as this, all other considerations were at once reduced to proportions of the most absolute insignificance. But was the death of the adventurers so very certain after all? Hope is hard to kill. Consciousness had brought reflection, reflection doubt, and doubt had resuscitated hope. "It's they!" had exclaimed the little Midshipman, and the cry had thrilled every heart on board as with an electric shock. Everybody had instantly understood it. Everybody had felt it to be true. Nothing could be more certain than that the meteor which had just flashed before their eyes was the famous projectile of the Baltimore Gun Club. Nothing could be truer than that it contained the three world renowned men and that it now lay in the black depths of the Pacific Ocean. But here opinions began to diverge. Some courageous breasts soon refused to accept the prevalent idea. "They're killed by the shock!" cried the crowd. "Killed?" exclaimed the hopeful ones; "Not a bit of it! The water here is deep enough to break a fall twice as great." "They're smothered for want of air!" exclaimed the crowd. "Their stock may not be run out yet!" was the ready reply. "Their air apparatus is still on hand." "They're burned to a cinder!" shrieked the crowd. "They had not time to be burned!" answered the Band of Hope. "The Projectile did not get hot till it reached the atmosphere, through which it tore in a few seconds." "If they're neither burned nor smothered nor killed by the shock, they're sure to be drowned!" persisted the crowd, with redoubled lamentations. "Fish 'em up first!" cried the Hopeful Band. "Come! Let's lose no time! Let's fish 'em up at once!" The cries of Hope prevailed. The unanimous opinion of a council of the officers hastily summoned together by the Captain was to go to work and fish up the Projectile with the least possible delay. But was such an operation possible? asked a doubter. Yes! was the overwhelming reply; difficult, no doubt, but still quite possible. Certainly, however, such an attempt was not immediately possible as the _Susquehanna_ had no machinery strong enough or suitable enough for a piece of work involving such a nicety of detailed operations, not to speak of its exceeding difficulty. The next unanimous decision, therefore, was to start the vessel at once for the nearest port, whence they could instantly telegraph the Projectile's arrival to the Baltimore Gun Club. But what _was_ the nearest port? A serious question, to answer which in a satisfactory manner the Captain had to carefully examine his sailing charts. The neighboring shores of the California Peninsula, low and sandy, were absolutely destitute of good harbors. San Diego, about a day's sail directly north, possessed an excellent harbor, but, not yet having telegraphic communication with the rest of the Union, it was of course not to be thought of. San Pedro Bay was too open to be approached in winter. The Santa Barbara Channel was liable to the same objection, not to mention the trouble often caused by kelp and wintry fogs. The bay of San Luis Obispo was still worse in every respect; having no islands to act as a breakwater, landing there in winter was often impossible. The harbor of the picturesque old town of Monterey was safe enough, but some uncertainty regarding sure telegraphic communications with San Francisco, decided the council not to venture it. Half Moon Bay, a little to the north, would be just as risky, and in moments like the present when every minute was worth a day, no risk involving the slightest loss of time could be ventured. Evidently, therefore, the most advisable plan was to sail directly for the bay of San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the finest harbor on the Pacific Coast and one of the safest in the world. Here telegraphic communication with all parts of the Union was assured beyond a doubt. San Francisco, about 750 miles distant, the _Susquehanna_ could probably make in three days; with a little increased pressure, possibly in two days and a-half. The sooner then she started, the better. The fires were soon in full blast. The vessel could get under weigh at once. In fact, nothing delayed immediate departure but the consideration that two miles of sounding line were still to be hauled up from the ocean depths. Rut the Captain, after a moment's thought, unwilling that any more time should be lost, determined to cut it. Then marking its position by fastening its end to a buoy, he could haul it up at his leisure on his return. "Besides," said he, "the buoy will show us the precise spot where the Projectile fell." "As for that, Captain," observed Brownson, "the exact spot has been carefully recorded already: 27 7' north latitude by 41 37' west longitude, reckoning from the meridian of Washington." "All right, Lieutenant," said the Captain curtly. "Cut the line!" A large cone-shaped metal buoy, strengthened still further by a couple of stout spars to which it was securely lashed, was soon rigged up on deck, whence, being hoisted overboard, the whole apparatus was carefully lowered to the surface of the sea. By means of a ring in the small end of the buoy, the latter was then solidly attached to the part of the sounding line that still remained in the water, and all possible precautions were taken to diminish the danger of friction, caused by the contrary currents, tidal waves, and the ordinary heaving swells of ocean. It was now a little after three o'clock in the morning. The Chief Engineer announced everything to be in perfect readiness for starting. The Captain gave the signal, directing the pilot to steer straight for San Francisco, north-north by west. The waters under the stern began to boil and foam; the ship very soon felt and yielded to the power that animated her; and in a few minutes she was making at least twelve knots an hour. Her sailing powers were somewhat higher than this, but it was necessary to be careful in the neighborhood of such a dangerous coast as that of California. Seven hundred and fifty miles of smooth waters presented no very difficult task to a fast traveller like the _Susquehanna_, yet it was not till two days and a-half afterwards that she sighted the Golden Gate. As usual, the coast was foggy; neither Point Lobos nor Point Boneta could be seen. But Captain Bloomsbury, well acquainted with every portion of this coast, ran as close along the southern shore as he dared, the fog-gun at Point Boneta safely directing his course. Here expecting to be able to gain a few hours time by signalling to the outer telegraph station on Point Lobos, he had caused to be painted on a sail in large black letters: "THE MOONMEN ARE BACK!" but the officers in attendance, though their fog-horn could be easily heard--the distance not being quite two miles--were unfortunately not able to see it. Perhaps they did see it, but feared a hoax. Giving the Fort Point a good wide berth, the _Susquehanna_ found the fog gradually clearing away, and by half-past three the passengers, looking under it, enjoyed the glorious view of the Contra Costa mountains east of San Francisco, which had obtained for this entrance the famous and well deserved appellation of the Golden Gate. In another half hour, they had doubled Black Point, and were lying safely at anchor between the islands of Alcatraz and Yerba Buena. In less than five minutes afterwards the Captain was quickly lowered into his gig, and eight stout pairs of arms were pulling him rapidly to shore. The usual crowd of idlers had collected that evening on the summit of Telegraph Hill to enjoy the magnificent view, which for variety, extent, beauty and grandeur, is probably unsurpassed on earth. Of course, the inevitable reporter, hot after an item, was not absent. The _Susquehanna_ had hardly crossed the bar, when they caught sight of her. A government vessel entering the bay at full speed, is something to look at even in San Francisco. Even during the war, it would be considered rather unusual. But they soon remarked that her bowsprit was completely broken off. _Very_ unusual. Something decidedly is the matter. See! The vessel is hardly anchored when the Captain leaves her and makes for Megg's Wharf at North Point as hard as ever his men can pull! Something _must_ be the matter--and down the steep hill they all rush as fast as ever their legs can carry them to the landing at Megg's Wharf. The Captain could hardly force his way through the dense throng, but he made no attempt whatever to gratify their ill dissembled curiosity. "Carriage!" he cried, in a voice seldom heard outside the din of battle. In a moment seventeen able-bodied cabmen were trying to tear him limb from limb. "To the telegraph office! Like lightning!" were his stifled mutterings, as he struggled in the arms of the Irish giant who had at last succeeded in securing him. "To the telegraph office!" cried most of the crowd, running after him like fox hounds, but the more knowing ones immediately began questioning the boatmen in the Captain's gig. These honest fellows, nothing loth to tell all that they knew and more that they invented, soon had the satisfaction of finding themselves the centrepoint of a wonder stricken audience, greedily swallowing up every item of the extraordinary news and still hungrily gaping for more. By this time, however, an important dispatch was flying east, bearing four different addresses: To the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, Washington; To Colonel Joseph Wilcox, Vice-President _pro tem._, Baltimore Gun Club, Md; To J.T. Marston, Esq. Long's Peak, Grand County, Colorado; and To Professor Wenlock, Sub-Director of the Cambridge Observatory, Mass. This dispatch read as follows: "In latitude twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north and longitude forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west shortly after one o'clock on the morning of twelfth instant Columbiad Projectile fell in Pacific--send instructions-- BLOOMSBURY, _Captain_, SUSQUEHANNA." In five minutes more all San Francisco had the news. An hour later, the newspaper boys were shrieking it through the great cities of the States. Before bed-time every man, woman, and child in the country had heard it and gone into ecstasies over it. Owing to the difference in longitude, the people of Europe could not hear it till after midnight. But next morning the astounding issue of the great American enterprise fell on them like a thunder clap. We must, of course, decline all attempts at describing the effects of this most unexpected intelligence on the world at large. The Secretary of the Navy immediately telegraphed directions to the _Susquehanna_ to keep a full head of steam up night and day so as to be ready to give instant execution to orders received at any moment. The Observatory authorities at Cambridge held a special meeting that very evening, where, with all the serene calmness so characteristic of learned societies, they discussed the scientific points of the question in all its bearings. But, before committing themselves to any decided opinion, they unanimously resolved to wait for the development of further details. At the rooms of the Gun Club in Baltimore there was a terrible time. The kind reader no doubt remembers the nature of the dispatch sent one day previously by Professor Belfast from the Long's Peak observatory, announcing that the Projectile had been seen but that it had become the Moon's satellite, destined to revolve around her forever and ever till time should be no more. The reader is also kindly aware by this time that such dispatch was not supported by the slightest foundations in fact. The learned Professor, in a moment of temporary cerebral excitation, to which even the greatest scientist is just as liable as the rest of us, had taken some little meteor or, still more probably, some little fly-speck in the telescope for the Projectile. The worst of it was that he had not only boldly proclaimed his alleged discovery to the world at large but he had even explained all about it with the well known easy pomposity that "Science" sometimes ventures to assume. The consequences of all this may be readily guessed. The Baltimore Gun Club had split up immediately into two violently opposed parties. Those gentlemen who regularly conned the scientific magazines, took every word of the learned Professor's dispatch for gospel--or rather for something of far higher value, and more strictly in accordance with the highly advanced scientific developments of the day. But the others, who never read anything but the daily papers and who could not bear the idea of losing Barbican, laughed the whole thing to scorn.

quarter

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

only

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

gesture

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

exhales

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

mind

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

doorstep

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

idea

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

jealous

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

mongenods

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

case

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

further

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

unbuckles

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

soundly

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

recognize

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

influence

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

"volte-face," and which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his conduct. "Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our characters--" Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of grace. "--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your education, have in no way lessened the precious innocence which we demand in a wife. You are indeed a wife for a poet, a diplomatist, a thinker, a man destined to endure the chances and changes of life; and my admiration is equalled only by the attachment I feel to you. I now entreat you--if yesterday you were not playing a little comedy when you accepted the love of a man whose vanity will change to pride if you accept him, one whose defects will become virtues under your divine influence--I entreat you do not excite a passion which, in him, amounts to vice. Jealousy is a noxious element in my soul, and you have revealed to me its strength; it is awful, it destroys everything--Oh! I do not mean the jealousy of an Othello," he continued, noticing Modeste's gesture. "No, no; my thoughts were of myself: I have been so indulged on that point. You know the affection to which I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed,--very little at the best" (he sadly shook his head). "Love is symbolized among all nations as a child, because it fancies the world belongs to it, and it cannot conceive otherwise. Well, Nature herself set the limit to that sentiment. It was still-born. A tender, maternal soul guessed and calmed the painful constriction of my heart,--for a woman who feels, who knows, that she is past the joys of love becomes angelic in her treatment of others. The duchess has never made me suffer in my sensibilities. For ten years not a word, not a look, that could wound me! I attach more value to words, to thoughts, to looks, than ordinary men. If a look is to me a treasure beyond all price, the slightest doubt is deadly poison; it acts instantaneously, my love dies. I believe--contrary to the mass of men, who delight in trembling, hoping, expecting--that love can only exist in perfect, infantile, and infinite security. The exquisite purgatory, where women delight to send us by their coquetry, is a base happiness to which I will not submit: to me, love is either heaven or hell. If it is hell, I will have none of it. I feel an affinity with the azure skies of Paradise within my soul. I can give myself without reserve, without secrets, doubts or deceptions, in the life to come; and I demand reciprocity. Perhaps I offend you by these doubts. Remember, however, that I am only talking of myself--" "--a good deal, but never too much," said Modeste, offended in every hole and corner of her pride by this discourse, in which the Duchesse de Chaulieu served as a dagger. "I am so accustomed to admire you, my dear poet." "Well, then, can you promise me the same canine fidelity which I offer to you? Is it not beautiful? Is it not just what you have longed for?" "But why, dear poet, do you not marry a deaf-mute, and one who is also something of an idiot? I ask nothing better than to please my husband. But you threaten to take away from a girl the very happiness you so kindly arrange for her; you are tearing away every gesture, every word, every look; you cut the wings of your bird, and then expect it to hover about you. I know poets are accused of inconsistency--oh! very unjustly," she added, as Canalis made a gesture of denial; "that alleged defect which comes from the brilliant activity of their minds which commonplace people cannot take into account. I do not believe, however, that a man of genius can invent such irreconcilable conditions and call his invention life. You are requiring the impossible solely for the pleasure of putting me in the wrong,--like the enchanters in fairy-tales, who set tasks to persecuted young girls whom the good fairies come and deliver." "In this case the good fairy would be true love," said Canalis in a curt tone, aware that his elaborate excuse for a rupture was seen through by the keen and delicate mind which Butscha had piloted so well. "My dear poet, you remind me of those fathers who inquire into a girl's 'dot' before they are willing to name that of their son. You are quarrelling with me without knowing whether you have the slightest right to do so. Love is not gained by such dry arguments as yours. The poor duke on the contrary abandons himself to it like my Uncle Toby; with this difference, that I am not the Widow Wadman,--though widow indeed of many illusions as to poetry at the present moment. Ah, yes, we young girls will not believe in anything that disturbs our world of fancy! I was warned of all this beforehand. My dear poet, you are attempting to get up a quarrel which is unworthy of you. I no longer recognize the Melchior of yesterday." "Because Melchior has discovered a spirit of ambition in you which--" Modeste looked at him from head to foot with an imperial eye. "But I shall be peer of France and ambassador as well as he," added Canalis. "Do you take me for a bourgeois," she said, beginning to mount the steps of the portico; but she instantly turned back and added, "That is less impertinent than to take me for a fool. The change in your conduct comes from certain silly rumors which you have heard in Havre, and which my maid Francoise has repeated to me." "Ah, Modeste, how can you think it?" said Canalis, striking a dramatic attitude. "Do you think me capable of marrying you only for your money?" "If I do you that wrong after your edifying remarks on the banks of the Seine can you easily undeceive me," she said, annihilating him with her scorn. "Ah!" thought the poet, as he followed her into the house, "if you think, my little girl, that I'm to be caught in that net, you take me to be younger than I am. Dear, dear, what a fuss about an artful little thing whose esteem I value about as much as that of the king of Borneo. But she has given me a good reason for the rupture by accusing me of such unworthy sentiments. Isn't she sly? La Briere will get a burden on his back--idiot that he is! And five years hence it will be a good joke to see them together." The coldness which this altercation produced between Modeste and Canalis was visible to all eyes that evening. The poet went off early, on the ground of La Briere's illness, leaving the field to the grand equerry. About eleven o'clock Butscha, who had come to walk home with Madame Latournelle, whispered in Modeste's ear, "Was I right?" "Alas, yes," she said. "But I hope you have left the door half open, so that he can come back; we agreed upon that, you know." "Anger got the better of me," said Modeste. "Such meanness sent the blood to my head and I told him what I thought of him." "Well, so much the better. When you are both so angry that you can't speak civilly to each other I engage to make him desperately in love and so pressing that you will be deceived yourself." "Come, come, Butscha; he is a great poet; he is a gentleman; he is a man of intellect." "Your father's eight millions are more to him than all that." "Eight millions!" exclaimed Modeste. "My master, who has sold his practice, is going to Provence to attend to the purchase of lands which your father's agent has suggested to him. The sum that is to be paid for the estate of La Bastie is four millions; your father has agreed to it. You are to have a 'dot' of two millions and another million for an establishment in Paris, a hotel and furniture. Now, count up." "Ah! then I can be Duchesse d'Herouville!" cried Modeste, glancing at Butscha. "If it hadn't been for that comedian of a Canalis you would have kept HIS whip, thinking it came from me," said the dwarf, indirectly pleading La Briere's cause. "Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said Modeste, laughing. "That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart." "Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any longer." "In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides, what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat, and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office under the Crown." CHAPTER XXV. A DIPLOMATIC LETTER The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter of fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris they exchanged four or five letters a week. "And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried. Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he sat down and composed the following letter:-- To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu: My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who, by the way, has the vice of liking literature, and calls herself a poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature. You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth, --compared to you, what are they? The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries, notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only a small fortune, is jealous of _me_; for La Briere is quietly making progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a blind. Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet, think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes, Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden, will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow! Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours to Paris. Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you, my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year? The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a "false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does it not? The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication. The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied. "We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the duchess say. "A letter from Havre, madame." Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime. "Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table. "Madame la duchesse?" "A mirror, child!" Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff. "Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is." Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in. "Ah! I see you are better, my dear," he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in. "My dear Henri," she answered, "why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior,--you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year." The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table. "You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior," said the duke. "Pray why?" "Why, you would always be together," said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor. "Oh, no," she said; "I am going to marry him." "If we can believe d'Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction," said the duke, smiling. "Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d'Herouville, always on the scent of a 'dot,' knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d'Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D'Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty--" "Henri, let us go to Havre!" cried the duchess, interrupting him. "Under what pretext?" said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII. "I never saw a hunt." "It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it." "Perhaps _Madame_ would go?" "That would be better," returned the duke, "I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don't go to Havre, my dear," added the duke, paternally, "that would be giving yourself away. Come, here's a better plan, I think. Gaspard's chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?" "He invite them?" said Eleonore. "I mean, of course, the duchess; she is always engaged in pious works with Mademoiselle d'Herouville; give that old maid a hint, and get her to speak to Gaspard." "You are a love of a man," cried Eleonore; "I'll write to the old maid and to Diane at once, for we must get hunting things made,--a riding hat is so becoming. Did you win last night at the English embassy?" "Yes," said the duke; "I cleared myself." "Henri, above all things, stop proceedings about Melchior's two appointments." After writing half a dozen lines to the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, and a short hint to Mademoiselle d'Herouville, Eleonore sent the following answer like the lash of a whip through the poet's lies. To Monsieur le Baron de Canalis:-- My dear poet,--Mademoiselle de La Bastie is very beautiful; Mongenod has proved to me that her father has millions. I did think of marrying you to her; I am therefore much displeased at your want of confidence. If you had any intention of marrying La Briere when you went to Havre it is surprising that you said nothing to me about it before you started. And why have you omitted writing to a friend who is so easily made anxious as I? Your letter arrived a trifle late; I had already seen the banker. You are a child, Melchior, and you are playing tricks with us. It is not right. The duke himself is quite indignant at your proceedings; he thinks you less than a gentleman, which casts some reflections on your mother's honor. Now, I intend to see things for myself. I shall, I believe, have the honor of accompanying _Madame_ to the hunt which the Duc d'Herouville proposes to give for Mademoiselle de La Bastie. I will manage to have you invited to Rosembray, for the meet will probably take place in Duc de Verneuil's park. Pray believe, my dear poet, that I am none the less, for life, Your friend, Eleonore de M. "There, Ernest, just look at that!" cried Canalis, tossing the letter at Ernest's nose across the breakfast-table; "that's the two thousandth love-letter I have had from that woman, and there isn't even a 'thou' in it. The illustrious Eleonore has never compromised herself more than she does there. Marry, and try your luck! The worst marriage in the world is better than this sort of halter. Ah, I am the greatest Nicodemus that ever tumbled out of the moon! Modeste has millions, and I've lost her; for we can't get back from the poles, where we are to-day, to the tropics, where we were three days ago! Well, I am all the more anxious for your triumph over the grand equerry, because I told the duchess I came here only for your sake; and so I shall do my best for you." "Alas, Melchior, Modeste must needs have so noble, so grand, so well-balanced a nature to resist the glories of the Court, and all these splendors cleverly displayed for her honor and glory by the duke, that I cannot believe in the existence of such perfection,--and yet, if she is still the Modeste of her letters, there might be hope!" "Well, well, you are a happy fellow, you young Boniface, to see the world and your mistress through green spectacles!" cried Canalis, marching off to pace up and down the garden. Caught between two lies, the poet was at a loss what to do. "Play by rule, and you lose!" he cried presently, sitting down in the kiosk. "Every man of sense would have acted as I did four days ago, and got himself out of the net in which I saw myself. At such times people don't disentangle nets, they break through them! Come, let us be calm, cold, dignified, affronted. Honor requires it; English stiffness is the only way to win her back. After all, if I have to retire finally, I can always fall back on my old happiness; a fidelity of ten years can't go unrewarded. Eleonore will arrange me some good marriage." CHAPTER XXVI. TRUE LOVE The hunt was destined to be not only a meet of the hounds, but a meeting of all the passions excited by the colonel's millions and Modeste's beauty; and while it was in prospect there was truce between the adversaries. During the days required for the arrangement of this forestrial solemnity, the salon of the villa Mignon presented the tranquil picture of a united family. Canalis, cut short in his role of injured love by Modeste's quick perceptions, wished to appear courteous; he laid aside his pretensions, gave no further specimens of his oratory, and became, what all men of intellect can be when they renounce affectation, perfectly charming. He talked finances with Gobenheim, and war with the colonel, Germany with Madame Mignon, and housekeeping with Madame Latournelle,--endeavoring to bias them all in favor of La Briere. The Duc d'Herouville left the field to his rivals, for he was obliged to go to Rosembray to consult with the Duc de Verneuil, and see that the orders of the Royal Huntsman, the Prince de Cadignan, were carried out. And yet the comic element was not altogether wanting. Modeste found herself between the depreciatory hints of Canalis as to the gallantry of the grand equerry, and the exaggerations of the two Mesdemoiselles d'Herouville, who passed every evening at the villa. Canalis made Modeste take notice that, instead of being the heroine of the hunt, she would be scarcely noticed. _Madame_ would be attended by the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, daughter-in-law of the Prince de Cadignan, by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and other great ladies of the Court, among whom she could produce no sensation; no doubt the officers in garrison at Rouen would be invited, etc. Helene, on the other hand, was incessantly telling her new friend, whom she already looked upon as a sister-in-law, that she was to be presented to _Madame_; undoubtedly the Duc de Verneuil would invite her father and herself to stay at Rosembray; if the colonel wished to obtain a favor of the king,--a peerage, for instance,--the opportunity was unique, for there was hope of the king himself being present on the third day; she would be delighted with the charming welcome with which the beauties of the Court, the Duchesses de Chaulieu, de Maufrigneuse, de Lenoncourt-Chaulieu, and other ladies, were prepared to meet her. It was in fact an excessively amusing little warfare, with its marches and countermarches and stratagems,--all of which were keenly enjoyed by the Dumays, the Latournelles, Gobenheim, and Butscha, who, in conclave assembled, said horrible things of these noble personages, cruelly noting and intelligently studying all their little meannesses. The promises on the d'Herouville side were, however, confirmed by the arrival of an invitation, couched in flattering terms, from the Duc de Verneuil and the Master of the Hunt to Monsieur le Comte de La Bastie and his daughter, to stay at Rosembray and be present at a grand hunt on the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, of November following. La Briere, full of dark presentiments, craved the presence of Modeste with an eagerness whose bitter joys are known only to lovers who feel that they are parted, and parted fatally from those they love. Flashes of joy came to him intermingled with melancholy meditations on the one theme, "I have lost her," and made him all the more interesting to those who watched him, because his face and his whole person were in keeping with his profound feeling. There is nothing more poetic than a living elegy, animated by a pair of eyes, walking about, and sighing without rhymes. The Duc d'Herouville arrived at last to arrange for Modeste's departure; after crossing the Seine she was to be conveyed in the duke's caleche, accompanied by the Demoiselles d'Herouville. The duke was charmingly courteous, he begged Canalis and La Briere to be of the party, assuring them, as he did the colonel, that he had taken particular care that hunters should be provided for them. The colonel invited the three lovers to breakfast on the morning of the start. Canalis then began to put into execution a plan that he had been maturing in his own mind for the last few days; namely, to quietly reconquer Modeste, and throw over the duchess, La Briere, and the duke. A graduate of diplomacy could hardly remain stuck in the position in which he found himself. On the other hand La Briere had come to the resolution of bidding Modeste an eternal farewell. Each suitor was therefore on the

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